


Unmusical dialects of men

by whimsicule



Series: We're all heavenly creatures [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, Angels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cupids aren't supposed to fall in love. Andrés finds out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmusical dialects of men

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on footballkink2. Took me ages to fill it. It's not as funny as I hoped it would be, so I'm gonna apologize in advance. Happy Holidays! (Title is taken from a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote.)
> 
> Warnings/Disclaimer: References to God and Christian beliefs. I own nothing and no one. Also, this is a work of fiction, which doesn't intend to offend anyone's beliefs, so please view it as only that. Some fluff. Lots of angst.

****_We the mortals touch the metals,_  
the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,  
knowing they will go on, inert or burning,  
and I was discovering, naming all the these things:  
it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.  
  
Still Another Day, Pablo Neruda

 

 

***

 

 

This is what we see.

An array of clouds pressed tightly together like cotton candy, light and airy and coloured in hundred nuances of pink and orange and yellow. The sky is equally striking, drenched with copper. Some people stop and look up, perhaps go out into their gardens, perhaps lift their gaze from where they’re sitting with friends in a quiet café over a frozen mocha. Because from time to time, the sun will break through in tiny rays and it will be striking for no particular reason. It will stop all these people from doing what they’re doing and they will pause, just for a moment, without really knowing why they suddenly feel content. In the end, it’s just light piercing through a cloud.

This is what it really is.

There are less than what people might believe if told. A few hundred; never all in one place, but spread all over the globe. They’re not really part of our world and they don’t walk among us, because they are not like us. Nevertheless, we are their purpose and they are our reason and there can’t be one without the other. And on some evenings, when the sun is setting and drowning in scarlet, they will come down to watch us. They will sit on soft clouds and carefully pry away the feathery substance and peek through holes whilst light floods over their shoulders. 

They care and we are content. But we all can’t actually say why.

 

***

 

He doesn’t come down often. There’s plenty to see from above and there’s just something about the texture of clouds that throws him off. They look soft, like feathers painted on a canvas with an old and rustic brush. To him, they feel sticky and they’re cold, like frozen candy he imagines; not that he knows what frozen candy feels like. Rolling over, he pokes at the cloud with his bare foot and the hole widens slightly. It’s like a magnifying glass. He can see whatever he wants to see.

The cloud dips slightly for a second and cold air brushes his neck, but Andrés doesn’t look up.

“Did Pep send you?”

“No,” Victor answers and sits down next to him, follows his gaze. A street filled with people, some sitting down for lunch, some holding hands; a young couple grinning and moving closer together. “You’ve been down here for a while, thought there might be a problem with a job.”

He shakes his head. “No, mission completed. I just got a little bored.”

“Bored, Andrés? Do we even know how it feels to be bored?”

“It’s a concept I’m familiar with,” Andrés says and finally looks at his friend, who has raised his eyebrows questioningly. “I know what it’s like.”

“Is that the same though?”

He shrugs. “Who cares? What’s it with the deep questions, Victor? Don’t you have any jobs left?”

“A couple,” Victor answers. “Not everyone can be as good as you. But you should still come up sooner rather than later. Or Pep will send Puyol after you.”

With another small gust of wind, Victor is gone and Andrés is alone on his cloud.

 

Andrés knows this. Before time, darkness gave birth to light. Out of this light, He emerged and He brought them with Him and sometimes Andrés remembers warmth and lightness and something brighter than the sun. He didn’t create the world, but He gave it a nudge in the right direction and it took shape and evolved under their guidance. He is a constant presence and when Andrés is close, he thinks he feels it again, that nurturing feeling of being protected. But he can’t be sure. They don’t feel anymore.

There are the archangels who command them, only a few. Andrés is one of many. There are different kinds, each carry a different responsibility and the humans have given them names. Some colour the sky in the morning and some paint it red in the evening; some make it rain and some make the oceans rise and fall; some make people sick and some heal them again; some make people fall in love. 

Andrés is one of them. The people have named them cupids. They have painted them like children with rosy cheeks and wings and arrows, but Andrés doesn’t look like that. In fact, he is not aware of how he looks. It is not part of his being. He exists to unite to souls. And he is not just good – he is the best.

 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

They are precisely organised. A small group of them is assigned to one area and they report to one of the archangels. Victor is in Andrés’ group and so is Puyol, appointed their superior by Pep, and all of them are calm and quiet, determined workers – except for Piqué. 

Andrés takes a deep breath. “What is it?”

Piqué sinks down next to him and shares his thoughts. Andrés sees their people, the people they’ve watched since birth and whose life has partially been put into their hands. They know them, and they know who is right for them and they steer them towards the right path with little hints, some magical quirks, nothing grave, but just enough. Cupids can’t actually make people fall in love, that’s not how it works – they just set their people’s eyes onto the right person. He doesn’t know what Piqué is getting at. 

“What is it?” he repeats, keeping his eyes closed, relishing the contentment he can feel radiating from below. Most of them are happy, at peace; not all, but most. The ones he’s responsible for anyway. Oh. “What did Victor say to you?”

Piqué shrugs. “Not much. Just that you’re too good for your own good.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” That makes Andrés open his eyes and turn his gaze toward the other cupid. “Maybe you need a new challenge.”

“Challenge?” Andrés raises his brows. “This is our duty, Piqué. This is what we do. I just do it better than you.” He’s only being honest.

“So you think you could match anyone? Because I have this one person on my radar and Pep is getting really impatient and –”

“Piqué,” Andrés says. “I’m not doing your work. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

But Piqué raises his arms in defence. There’s something in his eyes, some sparkle that Andrés hasn’t seen in other cupids. They each have different personalities and different methods, but most of them keep quiet and their heads down.

“Just let me finish, okay? I could do it, of course, but I think it will just take a lot of time. He’s already matched up, but – somehow, he isn’t taking the bait. And since you’re so good” – Andrés frowns, because Piqué is mocking him – “I thought we could strike a little bet?”

“Are you bored?”

Piqué furrows his brows. “We don’t get bored.”

“Yeah, true,” Andrés admits. He’s been spending too much down there; human concepts don’t apply to them. “Okay fine, go on.”

Piqué smiles. It’s bright; it reminds him of the sun, just less – “You can match up anyone with your little tricks. You’re good with them; you always know exactly what to do. You always say it’s not about that though. It’s about knowing a person’s heart. But I bet even you couldn’t match my case with his sweetheart.”

“Of course I could,” Andrés says. “I’ve never –”

“Failed, right. I know. But if you say it’s not about your magic… Could you do it without?”

“That’s not…” Andrés starts, confused (if he knew confused, right now he just can’t organise his thoughts), but Piqué interrupts him again.

“Possible? Oh it is. If we go further than the clouds, He can’t see us anymore, because we blend in. Of course, we can’t stay down there forever, or else we’ll dissolve and all. You’ll probably have a month.”

“And what’s the point of that?” Andrés asks. He thinks Pep has told them a story once, but many lifetimes ago and it’s hazy, about one that left to seek life among humans and disappeared, dragged away into non-existence. He doesn’t want to stop existing. “Apart from me doing your work?”

“Aren’t you bored?” Piqué returns the question. Usually Victor isn’t that talkative. 

“We don’t get bored,” Andrés insists when deep down, he thinks he knows, he understands and maybe he really is.

“Then see it as a challenge. Do we have a deal?”

He is one hundred per cent, without a doubt, positively sure that he’s going to regret this. That is as definite as the rise and fall of the sun, the cycle of the tides and life and death. Andrés will never have an answer to the question what possesses him to take Piqué’s hand in that moment and say “Deal”. 

 

Piqué doesn’t know much about his case, at least not as much as he should have known had he really been working as hard as he claims. But his human has been living in Barcelona all his life and so it’s easy for Andrés to get a feel of him and to understand the outlines of his character. What confuses him, though, is that he can’t pick up his soul mate. Andrés finds him, eventually, because he (despite what the Bible claims, it is a book written by humans and He does not differentiate when it comes to love, people are meant to be or they are not) is already in this human’s life. Just not the way he is supposed to. Nevertheless, Andrés doesn’t let minor details faze him. 

 

“So,” Piqué says. He’s sitting on a cloud next to Andrés, just above Barcelona; the sun is just rising. “Do you have a plan?”

“I do,” Andrés answers. “But it will have to be adjusted according to happenings.”

“Very clinical. You know you’re only got four weeks, right?”

Andrés nods. “That will be more than enough. I’ll see you soon. And not a word.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Somehow, Andrés doubts that.

 

 

Andrés is prepared for many things. He isn’t prepared for the fall.

 

***

 

There’s a vile taste in his mouth when he wakes up, as if he hadn’t brushed his teeth for weeks and a subtle but solid throb between his temples makes him want to roll over, away from the light seeping through his curtains. But said light tells him it’s more than time to get up. He shrugs off his duvet and the chilly morning air slaps his skin like a flat palm. The tiles are as cold as they are every morning, but he still hasn’t learned to place socks or slippers nearby, so he tiptoes into his bathroom and tries to get rid of that taste, tries to wake up by splashing icy water into his face.

He looks awful. Pale and like he hasn’t slept properly, which is true, because he’s been feeling terribly restless as of late, like there are ants crawling beneath his skin and he gets the weirdest dreams. He can’t actually remember them, but he wakes up feeling confused and with an unfamiliar itch between his shoulder blades. 

A crumpled pair of jeans is still on the floor, so he pulls them on without second thought, finds a clean shirt and socks. He’s running late – bloody dreams – and so he decides to pick up coffee on the way to work, shoulders his messenger bag and heads for the door.

His car is parked right across the street, an old Fiat, nothing special, but it’s small and convenient in the city. It could do with a new coat of paint though. He gets in, throws his bag onto the passenger seat and starts the engine, slots in the right gear, glances in the rear view mirror and –

“Holy fuck!”

His foot slips off the clutch, the car jumps to a halt and he’s almost flung forward against the steering wheel. Nearly strangling himself, he jumps up and fumbles for the door handle, pinching his skin when it slips from his already sweaty fingers. His heart is beating hard and uneven and it almost hurts in his chest when he scrambles out of the driver’s seat and out onto the sidewalk. He falls forward to steps along the side of his car and then –

“Oh my God,” he breathes and thinks his heart is going to jump out of his throat. “Oh my God.”

There is no possible explanation for what he does next. He takes out his phone with trembling fingers, almost drops it whilst fumbling for his number one on speed-dial. The line stays quiet for a few short, painful moments. Then it cracks.

“Villa,” he says, then the words die on his tongue. “Villa, I –”

“Xavi? What the hell? It’s seven in the morning…”

“Villa,” Xavi repeats, carefully taking a step forward, and stares down at the person lying behind his car, on the frozen concrete, with skin almost as pale as the clothes on his pack. “I think I hit someone with my car. Shit, I… I think he’s dead.”

 

As it turns out (only a few seconds after, when Xavi finally feels his body again and crouches down to feel the guy’s pulse), he is not dead and he doesn’t seem injured, but he’s lying on the street right behind Xavi’s car and Xavi could swear that he wasn’t lying there when crossed the street to get to it. So Villa calls him stupid and Xavi hangs up, but he doesn’t quite know what to do, and in another weird spur-of-the-moment decision, he scoops the still passed-out stranger up into his arms and carries him back to his flat.

And that’s where they are now. 

“Why don’t you take him to the hospital?” Villa asks, who has cooperatively dragged his ass over despite not having to get up for another two hours (no, Xavi has not memorized his schedule). But he’s an image of bad mood and lack of sleep and his hair is not spiked up but standing up at random angles. “Or call an ambulance?”

Xavi doesn’t know why. He says so too. “It’s a hunch. Like, he’s not injured, is he?” Xavi checked and there’s no blood, no bruises; in fact, the stranger looks disturbingly perfect. “He was just suddenly lying there. And – what if someone’s after him? What if he’s a refugee?”

Villa raises his left eyebrow at him, silently asking are you fucking kidding me? And maybe he’s right and Xavi has gone nuts. “What if he’s a fugitive? Like, his clothes? Maybe he broke out of some asylum. Because he ate people.”

Now it’s Xavi’s turn to look at Villa like he’s growing a second head. “Because he ate people, Villa? This isn’t one of your books, okay? He doesn’t look like he’s crazy.”

“He’s passed out,” Villa stresses and points at the stranger on Xavi’s couch.

“I know he is,” Xavi bites back half-heartedly. “But there can’t be any harm in waiting for him to wake up, right? Then we can ask him.”

“We?” Villa repeats. “When did I get dragged into this?”

Xavi reaches for his bag. He’s late for work and he really needs to get going now. “When you decided to come over against you better judgement?” he suggests with a grin. “And since you don’t actually need to be somewhere to do your job. So you can stay here, use my notebook, or pen and paper if you feel like it, and wait until he comes to himself.”

Villa gapes at him. Xavi would make fun of him if he weren’t in a hurry. “What? And what do I do then?”

He grabs his keys. “Call me.”

A row of curses follows him out the door.

 

***

 

The first thing that Andrés notices when he regains consciousness is that he can feel pain. Not just understand when someone feels it, not just have an idea about how it is like – he actually feels pain. And it’s unimaginable, most likely unimaginable to describe it to someone that has been born possessing the ability to feel. It’s a natural thing, it’s a matter of course, but for Andrés, it’s an entirely new experience. His entire body feels alien and – and heavy. He’s not familiar with it, he doesn’t understand and that’s… that’s confusion right there and it’s so much all at once, in his head and his chest. 

He doesn’t know the words to describe it and it simply overwhelms him and he gasps and then there’s air and it’s – cold – the word he’s looking for is cold. 

Andrés did not think this through.

He moves and even his movement is off and it’s just – odd – and Andrés… He opens his eyes and is instantly blinded and his surroundings seem dipped in a blurry substance until he realises that it’s his own vision that’s faulty. And Andrés is not faulty, he’s created to be precise and flawless in all ways and this is not like it’s supposed to be, it’s not how he is supposed to be and his body is telling him exactly that.

If that’s what mortality feels like, Andrés wonders how some of them could ever envy that. 

The lines start to clear and he blinks, sees the slightly raised pores on his skin indicating that he is actually cold, because his clothes are thin and light, like everything up there. But there is a thick blanket pooling in his lap and Andrés stares at it.

“You’re up.”

He turns his head around so fast that he can hear his own spine crack. It’s not a pleasant sound. Andrés’ eyes flicker over his surrounding for a second; a room, bright, clustered and stuffed with furniture – a young man is sitting in an armchair across from… from where Andrés is lying on a couch, as he notices now.

“Are you…” and the man trails off, obviously searching for words. He’s dressed in dark clothes and his hair and eyes are dark too, dark but friendly, that’s something Andrés can immediately sense, magic yay or nay.

“Is this,” Andrés starts, but the sound of his own voice down here throws him off for a second. “Is this your house?”

The man blinks at him. “Um, no. It’s my friend Xavi’s house. I mean flat. He – found you, I guess.”

“Found me,” Andrés repeats numbly. “Xavi.”

The sun is up, but it’s still cold. Andrés pulls the blanket up his chest to cover his bare arms. It’s soft and there’s a scent radiating off it, something that seems familiar, like a vague memory and it builds a contrast in his chest.

“Yeah. Um. Do you… remember anything? At all?”

Of course Andrés does, but that’s nothing he can say out loud. He remembers Piqué’s face right before he’d jumped and then – 

“Xavi,” he says again. “Your friend Xavi. So – you are David Villa.” 

Andrés realises the next second that he should have kept that to himself. It was a logical conclusion, since he has to rely on his other senses now, unable to feel people’s auras like he’s used to. But Villa’s eyes widen in something that resembles shock and of course he is shocked, he has never seen Andrés before. He isn’t even aware of their existence. Or even His, Andrés remembers with a frown.

“I – yeah… I mean. How the fuck? How do you know who I am?”

“I don’t –” Andrés says, but then there’s pain between his temples, piercing and it clears his head of all thoughts because it’s all-consuming and his hands shoot up, he squeezes and how on earth – “Ouch!”

He hears Villa sigh. “Okay, whatever, don’t – don’t move, okay? Guess you must’ve hit your head pretty hard.” He walks over and the floorboards creak, but it hurts so Andrés barely registers anything happening. Why did he ever agree to this? “Okay, just – stay. I’ll… get you some ice for that.”

And he heads away and starts talking to someone, hushed as if to keep it away from Andrés, who only understands “Xavi, I swear to God, get your ass over here” before he falls back against the pillows.

 

They don’t sleep. There’s never a time when they are not aware of where they are or conscious of their surrounding. So for Andrés, the concept of fainting is infinitely scary. He has underestimated the strain of his immortal soul in a fading shell or rather; he hadn’t been made aware of the fact that he would temporarily turn into a mortal. Losing his abilities, that’s one thing. Losing what he is – it’s torment.

 

So when Andrés wakes up again, with no recollection of how he even got to this couch and when the melting pack of ice was placed on his head – he’s very close to just heading back up. But Andrés is the best and he does not give up. He reaches up and takes the ice, drops it on the floor and when he looks up, he notices two pairs of eyes on him. One of them is Villa’s. The other –

It hits Andrés. Something so indescribably and infinitely mortal strikes his chest with so much force that Andrés can’t breathe and he is perfectly sure, for the fraction of a second, that his human shell is going to fade and die.  
But it doesn’t. The moment passes, yet there’s a strange heat remaining in his chest where his heart – 

His hand flies up against his ribs. He has a heart. He has a heart that’s beating solidly and steadily and it had quickened for a few seconds and now it’s calming down again and it leaves Andrés – puzzled. 

“Are you alright?” 

Andrés glances up again. Xavi, it has to be Xavi sitting on the armrest of Villa’s chair. Dark, short curls, a tanned and gentle face and big eyes deeper than anything Andrés has ever seen. He blinks.

“How’s your head?” Xavi continues to ask and then slower, “Are you okay?”

Andrés shakes his head. “No.” He’s not. It’s crushing him and overwhelming him and he doesn’t know, he just – feels suddenly and so much and he doesn’t know what to do with it all. 

“What’s your name?”

“Andrés.” At least that is still the same.

Xavi nods. “Okay Andrés, what do you remember?”

“I fell,” is the only truth he can grant Xavi. “And then it was just dark. For a long time.”

“Okay,” Xavi says and Andrés fixes his gaze on his face. It’s fascinating, he can’t says way, downright hypnotic and it feels – comforting to look at his, to look into his eyes and notice the steady beat of his pulse, giving his body a rhythm, pumping blood. “Is there anyone we could call for you? Family, a friend?”

“I don’t – I don’t know.” Andrés can’t lie, per se, but he can bend the truth. 

Both Villa and Xavi nod. “Can you excuse us for a second?” Xavi asks him and when Andrés nods, Xavi smiles and Andrés – he’s overwhelmed. He feels exhausted.

Feelings are tiring.

 

***

 

“What the hell are we going to do with him?” Villa hisses once they’ve reached the kitchen and shut the door behind them.

Xavi reaches for a cup of cold coffee, to calm his nerves, because the guy – Andrés – might have said that he fell, but what if Xavi really did hit him somehow? He’s sleep-deprived and he nearly killed someone today, even if that someone only seems to have a massive migraine and fucking amnesia – oh God.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “I could go through the paper’s archive to see if there are any people missing in the area?”

“Or if someone broke out of a mental asylum,” Villa suggests with a suspicious glance toward the door. “Seriously, Xavi. It’s freezing outside and he’s running around in white linen trousers and a t-shirt. No shoes. Did you notice he isn’t wearing shoes?”

“Fine,” Xavi admits. “But what if he was robbed, hit on the head?”

“Then we should still go to the police! He could be anyone.”

Xavi shrugs. “I don’t know, doesn’t that seem a bit… hasty? We could just take him to see a doctor, see what he says. Wait for Andrés to remember.”

Villa rolls his eyes. “Do what you want Xavi, but you’re letting him stay here, and you’re gonna be the one he murders in your sleep and then I’ll be the one to say at your funeral: I told him so.”

“Again, Villa. You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic,” Villa insists and crosses his arms in front of his chest, huffing out some air to underline that statement. 

Xavi still thinks that Villa is a drama queen. Not every stranger is a serial killer, even if that’s the case in Villa’s books, but maybe Villa is just that paranoid. He doesn’t want to know what goes on inside that morbid brain of his. Instead, Xavi empties the frankly disgusting coffee in the sink and starts to boil some water, this time for tea, because herbal tea is healthy and it’s supposed to be calming and the poor guy already doesn’t know who he is, so he shouldn’t go thirsty on top of that. Xavi is a good host.

“You want a cup?” He asks.

Villa groans and flops down on a chair. “I want a noose.”

Xavi shrugs. “Well, feel free to use the curtains in the living room.”

“Asshole.”

“You love me.”

Xavi takes the steaming mug – he hopes peppermint is classified as herbal – and runs a hand through Villa’s mussed hair on his way back to the living room. Andrés is still sitting right where they left him, probably in the same position and Xavi doubts that he’s moved even an inch. He looks incredibly lost between blanket and cushions, and so small and fragile. So pale as well, just that bit off transparency and Xavi wonders what his skin feels like, because it certainly looks like porcelain and – okay, that thought was creepy.

He clears his throat and puts the cup on the clustered living room table. “I made some tea,” he says. “It’s still hot, so – careful.”

Andrés looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it though. Maybe he hit his head harder than they thought.

 

***

 

Villa leaves shortly after Andrés takes his first hesitant sips of peppermint tea, which probably doesn’t serve his purpose, but Andrés is not his full self yet, he’s still struggling and coming to terms with the way he is for the time being, so he can quite focus on his job yet. So he doesn’t object to Villa leaving, but he observes with interest how Villa kisses Xavi’s temple before his departure. 

Xavi gives up his bed for Andrés, puts on clean sheets, offers him a shirt and new trousers, but Andrés declines, since his clothes are the last things tying him to home and he doesn’t want to take them off his skin. Then he’s left to his own devices, so he lies down on the bed, crawls beneath the sheets, breathes in new smells and doesn’t know what to do with himself because – there’s nothing.

He doesn’t hear or sense anything and there’s nothing but his own feelings, like the touch of linen to his bare skin or the thin ray of light forcing its way in through a gap in the curtains, coming from a streetlight outside the window. Floorboards are creaking and there are faint voices, like the house itself is alive and Andrés stares at the ceiling.

This is not how he imagined it to be.

Xavi is next door and he’s met Villa already, but Andrés still feels – helpless. He doesn’t know what to do with this body and with these sudden feelings and he can’t even think straight because he’s distracted by all the new sensations flooding his brain. It’s so overwhelming he is not surprised anymore why humans pray to Him for help.

Andrés is intelligent; he knows that. But this was incredibly stupid.

 

Andrés wants to curse his mortal frame. He wants to curse it and himself for falling for one of Piqué’s bets. He guesses that Victor is most likely already throwing a tantrum up there and that he has most likely already cornered Piqué, perhaps even talked to Pep to get Andrés out of here. Because – and this is another fact he’d curse if it weren’t blasphemy – he hasn’t, not until now, wondered how he is even going to get back. 

He thinks he panics, because his heartbeat is fast, so he tries to stay calm and think. The fastest way for him to go home is to solve the apparent issue, which is simple: make Xavi and Villa understand. And although Andrés doesn’t have his usual skillset – it can’t be too hard. He’ll be back up with Him in no time.

Andrés gets up and it’s difficult, because this body is unusually heavy and Andrés isn’t steady on his feet, like a toddler taking his first steps. It’s cold and he shivers and he can see clouds forming in front of his face, because of his breath, showing that he is alive taking in air and – calm, he needs to stay calm. Sun is hitting the curtains with full force now and Andrés takes them, rubs his fingers along the fabric and pulls.

He is hit with brightness so reminiscent of the beginning, so blinding that it consumes everything else and his eyes burn and water and it’s almost as if he can taste the sun on his tongue. It’s –

“Morning.”

Xavi’s voice breaks through his inner turmoil like the sun just broke through the curtains. Andrés turns his head and sees him standing in the doorway, wearing a white t-shirt and soft-looking trousers, no socks. His cheeks are dark with stubble and his hair seems as soft as his trousers and the blankets and cushions and –

“Morning.” His voice is – odd. Andrés doesn’t think he’ll get used to it.

“It’s a nice view, isn’t it?” Xavi says and nods toward the window and Andrés follows it, eyes getting used to the light and then he can see it too, the view over Barcelona and the sea in the distance and there’s –

“The Sagrada Família.”

“You know it?” Xavi asks curiously. “Have you been there before? Are you from around here?”

Andrés knows that Xavi is trying to get him to remember things he’s sure that Andrés has forgotten. “No,” he answers. “But I’ve seen it before. An image. Somewhere.”

Xavi sighs. “Well, it’s a start, right? You remember something.” 

And Andrés wants to tell him that he remembers everything; that he remembers the beginning and His light and Lucifer’s fall from grace, the Plague and the Dark Ages and women burning and screaming, and men creating beauty. He wants to say that he saw the birth of Barcelona, watched the cathedral rise into the sky and witnessed the city crumble and then give birth to new life.

He says none of it.

“Well,” Xavi says after Andrés can’t find words that would be suitable for Xavi’s ears. “Are you hungry? Do you want breakfast?”

Andrés blinks. “Um. I’m not sure.” But then his stomach makes a noise that comes close to a growl and Xavi smiles and –

“I take that as a yes,” he says and then proceeds to drag Andrés into the kitchen.

 

Andrés sits across from Xavi at the kitchen table – after he’s figured out what to do with a bread roll, hopefully merely subtly observing Xavi. There’s light pouring over his shoulders, sharp against the black of his hair and it’s almost like he has a halo, which is ridiculous, but for a moment… Andrés isn’t sure, but there’s something there, so soft and light that he can’t grasp it because it trembles and flutters out of his reach. The memory of a feeling, the whisper of a sound –

“I called a friend of mine,” Xavi interrupts his thoughts. “He’s a doctor and – it can’t hurt, can it? Maybe he knows how you can get your memory back. There are antibiotics for anything these days.”

Andrés just nods hastily and churns his brain in an attempt to figure out if a doctor would be able to see through his mortal façade.

 

As it turns out, he panics for no reason (and panic, that is something Andrés can already say, is his least favourite feeling). The doctor, Emili, is a family friend, according to Xavi and he prods and pokes at Andrés, observes his head and his spine and shines a light into his eyes. Andrés has a beating heart and apparently, that is enough to classify him as human. Emili talks to Xavi mainly, tells him that there are no injures, that nothing indicates a fall (to be honest, Andrés did fall, but he’s a cupid), so that the most likely cause for amnesia is an experienced trauma. It takes time and rest.

Xavi convinces Emili to let Andrés stay with him while he recovers, so they get into Xavi’s car (driving is an odd sensation) and drive back through busy streets and it unsettles Andrés to the point of rising nausea that he can’t figure out what the hurrying people are feeling. His body is in a cocoon and his mind even more so and he feels awfully relieved when they’re back in Xavi’s living room, away from the crowds, where Andrés can at least pretend that everything is normal.

 

“I don’t want to be keeping you from anything,” he tells Xavi as he once again proceeds to make Andrés as comfortable as possible. He boils hot water for tea, gets woollen socks and a jumper.

“Don’t worry,” Xavi replies. “I’m happy to help. And I can work from home for a couple of days, that’s no problem.” When Andrés keeps worrying his lower lip with his teeth, he adds, “Honestly, Andrés. It’s fine, it’s – good. And if I need to leave for anything, Villa can come over to keep you company.”

Andrés takes that as his cue. “You know him well.”

Xavi pauses. “I – yeah. We met at University, almost ten years ago.”

“He’s your friend.”

Xavi’s brows curve lightly and it produces one fine line on his forehead. Andrés is suddenly hit with the urge to smooth it out again, brush over it with this fingertip, erase the trace of – unease? – from Xavi’s face.

“He’s my best friend.”

Andrés tries to pick out a quiver in his voice, any kind of indicator that said words aren’t the full truth, but Xavi’s voice is warm and steady and there isn’t a hint of uncertainty in them. Nevertheless, “You two seem really close. Do you… love him?”

“What?” Xavi’s eyes widen slightly. “I mean, of course I do, but – not like that.”

“Why?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Andrés shrugs. “I’m just curious.”

“You sure are,” Xavi says but then he laughs quietly and he doesn’t seem to mind too much. “Listen, I know how it looks. Everyone keeps telling me. But Villa and I are good as friends. It’s not like he’s like my brother, but – we’re friends. That’s it.”

“Okay,” Andrés replies. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” 

Xavi is still lingering at the foot of the couch Andrés is sitting on, surrounded by cushions and blankets. Andrés shrugs again. “For prying. It is none of my business.”

“It’s fine,” Xavi says. Then he disappears into the kitchen.

 

***

 

“So he’s just gonna stay with you until he remembers?”

Xavi sighs. “Don’t give me that tone, Villa. What else am I supposed to do? Drop him off at the side of the road?”

He has closed the door to the kitchen, but he lowers his voice just in case. Just the thought of throwing Andrés out makes him feel physically ill – makes him feel like scum. He’s not that big on religion, but his parents had always taken him to church as a child and one thing that has always stuck in his mind is that you’re supposed to treat others like you would like to be treated. He’s just being charitable; a decent human being.

“Call the police? Or a hospital?”

“Listen, I’ve already contacted someone I know and there’s no missing person that fits his description. I’m not an idiot,” Xavi says and tugs the phone in between shoulder and ear as he pours another cup of peppermint tea for Andrés. He seems to like it. “And Emili says there’s nothing physically wrong. He’s not hurt, but he might be recovering from shock.”

“And you think your home is the right place for him to get over that?”

“It’s better than a hospital,” Xavi bites back. “If I were to wander the streets with memory loss, I’d appreciate someone taking me in until I got better.”

He almost spills some of the boiling water. It sloshes over the brim of the mug and Xavi grabs a towel, wipes it away.

“Yes, but you’re you. That guy –”

“Andrés. His name is Andrés.”

Villa groans exasperatedly. “Fine. Andrés. He knew my name. He said, and I quote: You are David Villa. No question mark.”

Xavi rolls his eyes. “So what? You’re a published writer. Your face is on a couple of million book sleeves. They want to turn one of your bestsellers into a film. People recognize you. He might have read something and remembered. He remembers the Sagrada Família.”

“Because that’s a world-famous cathedral, idiot. What if he’s a stalker?”

“A stalker?” Xavi repeats. There’s still water dripping down the cabinets and it annoys him and he keeps wiping it away, but the towel is kind of soaked too. “Come one. You’re being ridiculous. I’m a journalist. I write about sports. It’s not like I’m the star player of Barça.”

Xavi isn’t one to laugh at his own jokes – not that this was a joke – but he has to grin around the glass of juice he’s putting to his lips; his throat is dry as hell.

“I wrote a book about a stalker. I did research, okay? They pick random people, not necessarily famous.”

“What if he’s just using me to get to you then?”

The struck silence on the other end of the line shouldn’t be as satisfactory as it is, but – it is. “That’s not funny,” Villa says eventually.

“It’s pretty funny,” Xavi insists. “And stop being so paranoid. Also, you’re coming over for dinner. Bring some tortillas.” 

Then he hangs up, leaves the phone on the counter, and takes Andrés’ tea and his juice to re-join him in the living room.

 

***

 

Dinner is a quiet affair for two main reasons: Andrés is still trying to figure out how to behave like an actual person and he’s also fairly certain that Xavi and Villa have to discuss a couple a things that they don’t want him to hear. Or rather, that Villa doesn’t want him to hear. And Andrés doesn’t blame him. He has to admit, his story isn’t the most credible and it’s only natural for Villa to be sceptical. 

Yet there might also be the slight possibility that Andrés is just fairly content to sit back and observe, because at the moment, there isn’t much else for him to do. He has a relatively clear understanding of Xavi’s point of view, but he doesn’t know where Villa stands. He’s been matching people since he started existing and sometimes both parties are cooperative; sometimes that is not the case. Andrés isn’t certain if Villa is going to be more helpful than Xavi – he doubts it though. But he needs to know either way.

An opportunity arises when Xavi gets a call from work and has to run by the office for some editing. He excuses himself and Villa gives him a sidelong glance, but Xavi smiles and so Andrés smiles back, he’s finding it somehow and weirdly impossible not to do so.  
When he turns to Villa his smile quickly dies in confrontation with Villa’s frown.

“Sorry,” Andrés feels obliged to say and Villa’s expression instantly softens.

“For what?” he asks and his shoulders sag a little, maybe with relief, maybe with pressure, Andrés can’t read Villa that well yet.

“I know I’m – inconveniencing. I’m sure you two had plans and I’m… in the way.”

Villa raises his hands. His jumper crinkles around his elbows; it’s in a very distinct colour and Andrés is wrecking his brain to remember the name of it. It seems silly to give every colour a name, come to think of it. Andrés knows that there are far too many to be categorised. Colours are born and die much like people. 

“You’re not, okay? I –” Villa starts, then sighs. “Listen, I’m just being a dick. Not your fault. I’m just –”

“You’re looking out for him,” Andrés completes.

“I guess,” Villa says, more to his sleeves than Andrés, but he’s not complaining. There’s something incredibly soft to Villa at the moment and if he were still a cupid, he would be able to – but he’s not, so Andrés is trying not to think about that. He’ll have to go with what he has.

“He’s lucky to have you,” Andrés adds and then Villa goes quiet. Not for long, but he is silent long enough for Andrés to pick up some loose ends. He’ll tie them together later.

Villa clears his throat. “Anyway, you – wanna watch TV?”

 

Andrés knows what a TV is. He might be a cupid living in what human’s have called heaven, but he is not ignorant. Yet it does puzzle him how this thing keeps people occupied. He’s been looking at the flickering screen for less than five minutes and it already makes his eyes itch and his head thump as Villa changes the images like he’s flipping a deck of cards. He finds his own senses, the way his body reacts and twitches distracting enough.

So he watches Villa watch some apparently boring show on TV – he keeps yawning and dozing off – and when Xavi comes home and settles in the free spot next to Villa, Andrés continues to watch them both. Villa appears to be tired, because his head falls on Xavi’s shoulder and his eyes close, but Xavi doesn’t seem to mind. He has his arm on the backrest of the couch and his fingers are dangling down, tracing light and illogical patterns onto Villa’s neck.

Andrés barely refrains from letting out a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t get it. It fits and they should and why they are not escapes Andrés’ frame of mind – at least his mortal frame. 

 

Time doesn’t pass as quickly as up there, but it still passes quickly, Andrés realises. A temperature low hits Barcelona and Villa locks himself into his house to write (Xavi tells him that Villa does that every once in a while and that it won’t take long for him to re-emerge, probably half-starved and unshaven), so it’s just Xavi and Andrés, in Xavi’s apartment, for the remainder of the week. Andrés can’t get used to TV so he locks his eyes on Xavi as he works. 

On the second day he asks Xavi about it and Xavi tells him that he covers the sports section for a local newspaper, sometimes travels for when the team has away matches, he’d even gone to Austria for a European Championship. He does everything from match reviews to interviews, but mostly he enjoys tactical analysis, and then he proceeds to tell Andrés about a book he’s been working on for a long time now. A book based on his team and his players and his eyes light up so much that Andrés feels their warmth on his skin and it tickles.

Andrés doesn’t realise that he smiles the entire time until he passes a mirror on his way to the kitchen.

It doesn’t really benefit his purpose that Villa has crawled into a hole, but getting to know Xavi, it’s – positive. Yes, Andrés believes that it’s a good thing for him to get to know Xavi, because perhaps it will make it easier for Andrés to make Xavi understand. Perhaps he can provide a different perspective on the matter and maybe that will be enough.

From what Andrés can observe, Xavi is a pure person. A rare one, too. He can’t say what tells him that, but he feels instinctively that Xavi is special; that he’s got a good heart and that he’s sincere and honest. But Xavi is also very private and solemn. He closes himself off from time to time and he probably doesn’t even notice himself, but there is this air of sadness about him, some sort of – pain that might not even be Xavi’s to bear, yet it still sticks to him subtly, like a second layer of skin.

It takes Andrés a few days to figure it out without his usual abilities. Xavi’s an old soul. There might be centuries of sadness that he’s still burdened with.

Andrés is beginning to understand why He never bestowed them with the gift to feel, although he wouldn’t call it a gift anymore. Perhaps with the ability, even responsibility, because Andrés feels Xavi’s pain – pain he isn’t aware of – and it… it hurts. It leaves him restless and anxious and all these other descriptions that Andrés is now finally grasping and understanding. 

He tries to figure out how much it would hurt if he combined the last couple of millennia; how much it would have crippled him to feel all those hearts breaking.

Xavi has just left to go to the store to pick up some groceries, wrapped up in coat and scarf and hat, and Andrés finds himself alone in the apartment for the first time. He doesn’t snoop around, that’d be exaggerated, but he has a look at the books in his shelves, the people in picture frames hanging on the walls. Villa is in most of them and there are also a lot of Villa’s books. Andrés takes one that seems most used and opens it up to find a personal dedication, a short but heartfelt thank you. He skims through the first couple of pages when he suddenly smells something; something like smoke. It makes him propel around in a beat of his newly acquired heart and shock is something he has to his list of feelings too. 

The book drops to the floor. “Victor!”

There he is, standing in the middle of Xavi’s living room, dressed much like Andrés had been when he’d fallen; no shoes or socks, white trousers, but he’s also wearing a long grey coat. Andrés knows that Victor can’t actually be angry – but he looks like it nonetheless.

“Care to tell me,” Victor starts through gritted teeth, “what on earth you are doing?”

Andrés picks up the book and places it back on the shelf. “I take it you talked to Piqué.”

“Oh yes,” Victor says. “Oh yes, I did. I had to track him down, actually. Because you just disappeared on me seven days ago. Seven days, Andrés.”

“I know how long I’ve been gone,” he replies, but keeps his eyes firmly on the books in front of him. “You don’t need to tell me.”

“I hope I don’t need to tell you that this is madness, either. Betting with Piqué? For what reason, Andrés? Why? Don’t tell me it’s about being bored again, we don’t even know how to be bored and I can’t believe you let Piqué get under your skin like that and –”  
Andrés turns around and Victor gasps. “You’re –”

“Human,” Andrés finishes for him. “Temporarily. That was part of the bet.”

Victor steps closer until he can almost reach out to touch him, but at the last second, he stills. “Your heart is beating. It’s… you’re actually…”

“I know. It won’t be for long, two more weeks, at most. I didn’t exactly plan it like this, but it seems to happen automatically when we descend and – wait. Why aren’t you human? How did you come down?” Victor evades his eyes. “Victor,” Andrés presses.

“I told you, I talked to Piqué. Apparently, he has a few tricks up his sleeves.”

“That’s not it,” Andrés says. “Tell me, what did you do?”

Victor shakes his head. “I’m not telling you. You’ll find out eventually. It doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is that you’ve turned into a human, Andrés. And that’s not what you are. Your soul is going to wilt away in this mortal shell.”

“Eventually yes. But I’ll be back home before that happens. I’m just showing Xavi the right way.”

“Xavi,” Victor repeats, taking a breath he doesn’t need, more out of picked-up habit than necessity. “The right way. Fine. I won’t tell Pep. And I won’t tell Puyol. But you better know what you’re doing, Andrés. This is… this is dangerous.”

“I know,” Andrés replies solidly, matching Victor’s stern expression. “And I know.”

With another rise of his eyebrows toward Andrés, Victor disappears into thin air, leaving nothing behind but the smell of burnt toast.

 

Andrés could really get used to food – eating, generally. A couple of days ago, he had been really apprehensive about putting something in his mouth. But now… Xavi says he has a sweet tooth, and maybe Andrés has, he just can’t believe that they don’t have anything like strawberry jam up there. Or chocolate. Andrés doesn’t think that he could ever tire of that taste on his tongue.

Xavi talks about random things, calmly and quietly and Andrés listens and he lets Xavi’s voice lull him into a state of trance. He’s tired and this human body is consuming all his energy and it’s so heavy that it keeps pulling him down. He barely makes it to the bed on his own two feet.

Dreaming – that is something that Andrés could do without. It makes his heart beat faster and his chest ache and he wakes up in the middle of the night, sweating and nauseous, because they’re coming back. They are coming back to haunt him; memories. He has always had them, he’s always remembered, but now he dreams of burning cities and dying firstborns, blood at the gates of Jerusalem and the ashes of innocents; of love ones bidding farewell. So much anguish and hate and pain that he chokes on and it washes over him like the Flood.

The nights before, Andrés had stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling and willing the images and feelings away. This night, it doesn’t work and an invisible thread is pulling him up, pulling at something right beneath his sternum, so he pads across the dark room and peeks around the corner.

Xavi is still sitting on the couch in the dark, laptop illuminating his face. He is typing away but looks up when he hears Andrés’ bare feet on the parquet.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks and Andrés shakes his head, body exhausted but mind reeling, and slowly walks over. Xavi pats the empty space next to him and Andrés sinks down, pulling his legs in. His insides are trembling and cold he shivers and the actual horrors he just had to relive in his sleep must be showing on his face. “Nightmare?” 

He feels Xavi’s warm hand coming to rest on his neck, thumb behind his left ear like he’s flicking a switch and Andrés moulds against Xavi’s shoulder, eyes already incredibly heavy again. 

“You’re always so warm,” he mutters into Xavi’s jumper, feels the other shift for a moment before he stills again, now having draped an arm around Andrés shoulder, pulling him close. And then it’s suddenly there, right in his chest, a small ball of heat, slowly spinning and unfolding; unfolding like it’s a caterpillar’s cocoon morphing and turning and revealing a small butterfly. Andrés parts his lips in a yawn and half-expects it to come flying out of his throat.

Out of the corner of his half-closed eyes, he sees Xavi shutting his laptop, then he descends into blissful darkness.

 

***

 

When Xavi wakes up, he feels surprisingly good. Granted, he does have a stiff neck, but he feels rested and rejuvenated like he hasn’t been feeling in a long time. There is a warm weight covering his body, too heavy for any type of duvet, even the thick ones for winter that probably hold the feathers of a hundred geese. He shifts and opens his eyes.

“Right,” he mutters to himself. He remembers staying up late, unable to sleep, so he’d started to work on an article and then Andrés had dragged his still sleepy body onto the couch and they had both fallen asleep there; on top of each other. “Right.”

He doesn’t want to wake Andrés, but he can’t stay like this for much longer. His right arm is falling asleep, squished between Andrés and the backrest and he’s got pins and needles in his left leg. Xavi also needs the bathroom. Thing is though – he can’t quite tear his eyes away, because… Well, Xavi is not sure. Andrés just looks so serene and peaceful and – angelic. Xavi has no idea where that word just came from, but it’s true. And his skin is warmer than it’s been all week.

His heart jumps. 

Xavi lets out a silent groan. “Oh crap…”

 

After Xavi has wound his body out from under Andrés’, he takes a blanket and drapes it over him as a substitute for his own body heat. He has a quick shower, heads to the kitchen and has the strongest coffee he’s had in months; not because he’s tired, but because he needs something to wake up his damn mind and shake some sense into him. He has a staring contest with his phone before he gives in and dials the number by heart.  
It goes straight to voicemail. Of course.

“Villa,” he says, trembling hands clinging to his mug of coffee like it’s the only anchor keeping him afloat. “I think I’ve got a problem. A reasonably big one. And I have no idea how I got myself into it. I know you’re being a hermit, but you’re dealing with fictional characters and I am real and I am your best friend and I need you to beat some sense into me, okay? Okay.” He takes a deep breath and yearns for a cigarette, although he doesn’t even smoke. “So when you get this, please. Call me. Or better; come over and knock some sense into me in person. Thanks.”

 

Villa does come over in the afternoon, which is earlier than Xavi had assumed. Not that Villa isn’t a considerate friend (also, he jumps at every chance to straighten Xavi out, no pun intended); but when he gets into his writing mode, not even a nuclear war could pry him away from his desk – usually. To be fair, he does look like he hasn’t left his desk in a week; stubble darker than it is most of the time, bags under his eyes and shirt unpressed.

Andrés is asleep again, apparently needing to catch up on a few restless nights where he hadn’t come to Xavi for comfort – and perhaps Xavi shouldn’t think of it that way. They haven’t really talked much all day; Xavi has been busying himself with work and Andrés, not very big on TV, had grabbed a book to read. Xavi finds it curious that he’d taken a battered copy of the Bible that his grandmother had given him years ago but well, whatever makes him happy. Right now though, Andrés is sleeping and his brows keep twitching like he’s frowning at something – or someone – in his dream.

Xavi waves Villa into the kitchen once he’s through the front door. He’s made a new can of coffee and Villa almost burns his tongue when he immediately takes a large sip, because he’s a greedy idiot.

“I didn’t think I’d see you for another week,” Xavi says once Villa has stopped hissing and waving air at his burnt tongue. 

“I hit a writing-block,” Villa scoffs.

Xavi pours some milk into his cup. “What’s this new book about?”

“Like I’m gonna tell you,” Villa replies, which is true, he never does tell Xavi until whatever he’s writing is properly finished. “About eternal love?” He laughs when Xavi pulls a face. “Come one, Xavi, what do I know about love?”

“Probably as much as I know,” Xavi mutters into his coffee.

“Nah, I do know more than you. But only because you’re emotionally stunted.”

“Jeez, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Villa smirks. “Trust me on this though, I would know. Anyway, you said you’re in deep shit. What’d you do? Did you kill someone for real this time?”

“That’s not funny,” Xavi says. “And no. I haven’t killed anyone. Ever. And I do not intend to. It’s just that I… think, that is. I’m not sure, but…” Villa raises his brows and Xavi sighs. “Okay, fine. I think I like Andrés. I’m… attracted to him.”

Villa just stares at him – blankly. Xavi shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “What?”

Xavi groans. “Oh come on, you heard me, I won’t say it again.”

He really needs to get rid of that clock, it’s so awfully noisy, he’s never realised before, like he has tinnitus or something wrong with his ears. The cup in his hands is warm and he spins it between palms to spread the temperature.

“Right. What did I just say? Emotionally stunted. Do you actually try to be this weird?” Xavi gives him The Eye, whereupon Villa rolls his. “Okay, lets not overreact. When was the last time you actually went out? On a date? You stay cooped up in your apartment, or at work, or at mine and now you’re suddenly living with someone who is – well, he’s not my type, but I can admit that he could be someone’s. Maybe it’s just your carnal needs clouding your brain. Maybe just need to get laid; or jerk off.”

“You really have a way with words…”

Villa huffs. “Don’t be a sarcastic dick. I’m trying to help.”

“Well,” Xavi says frustrated. He’s going to tear that damn clock off the wall if it doesn’t shut up. “You’re not helping. I know I’m not Freud, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell the difference between being horny and –”

“If you say in love, I’m gonna hit you.”

“I’m not. Jesus, he’s been here for a week.”

“Whatever,” Villa shrugs. “You’re probably just overworked, not enough sleep, I know how that feels. Plus, the guy’s got amnesia. You have no idea who he is, where he comes from; if he’s got a girlfriend, boyfriend, a wife.”

It’s still ticking. Xavi rubs his temples. “So what are you suggesting?”

“Take a step back. Simple as that. He’ll be gone again in no time.”

Something tells Xavi it’s not going to be that easy.

 

***

 

Andrés doesn’t know if he’s more aware of it when he’s asleep. It’s a random theory that his soul drifts up once he’s dreaming and thus closer to Him. But when he wakes up, it’s with a start, with a lack of air in his newly born lungs and tears tickling at the corners of his eyes. It’s with a heavy weight in his stomach and a persistent ache in his heart that he is unable to ignore. He rubs his chest and when that doesn’t help, he tentatively digs his fingers into the skin above his ribs, feels that that sharp and short-lived pain is at least a distraction. 

He sits up bleary eyed with an icky taste in his mouth and is relieved to find a glass of water on the cluttered table next to the couch. The fluid is icy all the way down his throat. Andrés turns his head both ways, still putting pressure on his chest, and finds the room empty. Xavi’s laptop is quietly buzzing on the table in the far corner, facing the window. It’s not dark yet, but there are clouds gathering. Andrés squints in the illusion that his mortal eyes are able to distinguish his kind between the greyish white fluffs.

Getting up with stiff limbs, still not having become used to the heaviness of his limbs, Andrés stretches. The floor is kind of cold, so he grabs the woollen socks he’s grown very fond of and pulls them on. He’s just having another look around the room when the kitchen door opens and Xavi steps out, followed closely by Villa. Xavi smiles at him like he always does, just… less bright? Andrés can’t tell what it is, there’s just a different air about it. Villa is looking at him blankly; it’s a little bit unsettling. 

Andrés waits for either of them to say something, but they don’t, not for an unusually long moment, until Villa clears his throat audibly and grabs his jacket that he’d apparently thrown over the backrest of a chair upon arrival. 

“Right, I’m heading back home,” he says to Xavi. “My editor’s breathing down my neck. And I should remind you that she’s over fifty and a chain-smoker, so that’s not pleasant.”

Xavi rolls his eyes. “Get out. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t bail.”

“Never,” Villa says and is out the door in a heartbeat.

Andrés wonders if he’s leaving because of him. He hopes Villa is not, because that would ever further complicate matters. Villa already doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him and Andrés doesn’t blame him. His cover story is more than farfetched. It would’ve been easier if he’d stayed himself, kept his abilities; not to match them, but to at least be less suspicious. Like this, and with Villa clearly not being as fond of Andrés as Andrés is of woollen socks – well. He’s not going to trust Andrés with his romantic well-being. 

And it’s not like Andrés has any idea what to do anyway, so maybe it doesn’t matter either way. It’s – strange; not to know what he’s doing, not to be confident in his area of expertise. It makes his throat clog up.

Xavi shuffles. Andrés snaps out of his trance.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, looking concerned and there it is, that bitter taste in the back of his throat that Andrés has started to identify as guilt. It’s terribly unpleasant. “Maybe you do have a concussion after all. Maybe we should go see Emili again.” He takes a step closer, but Andrés shakes his head.

“There’s no need, Xavi, really. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

Andrés shrugs with quivering shoulders. “I forgot.” Lying just tastes foul.

 

He knows he’s dreaming. It’s a new development, being aware of that, but Andrés guesses that it would be hard to miss that this is a dream, considering that he finds himself standing between sandy dunes, speckled with dried straws of reed. The sand feels soft beneath his bare feet, perhaps heated by the sun, although when Andrés glances toward the sky, he can only see grey clouds. A soft breeze is touching his naked arms, neither warm nor particularly cold and when Andrés closes his eyes and listens intensely, he thinks he can hear the faint sounds of waves brushing the shore. The air is salty. He can taste it on his tongue. 

“Hello Andrés.”

He turns on his heels. Being angry is not in his nature, not even in his mortal one. Andrés isn’t sure whether he knows how to even be angry, but he assumes that he’s getting close to finding out.

“Piqué.”

The other cupid smiles sheepishly. “How’re you doing?”

Andrés blinks. “How am I – … I sincerely hope you are not being serious. Because I think you didn’t take the time to let me in on all the details concerning this bet of yours, more importantly the consequences of me descending. I am completely powerless.”

Piqué has the audacity to scratch the back of his head. Andrés thinks that he’s been spending too much time watching people. This nonchalance is no way for any being of their kind to behave. “Yes, I might’ve… underestimated the effects.”

“You might have? Oh, I think you did.”

“Well, okay, I miscalculated stuff on my part, cut me some slack, Andrés,” Piqué says.

Andrés breathes in salty air. He can feel his pulse accelerating. “I am not going to cut you any slack, Piqué. Do you – do you have any idea how perturbing this is? Now please, help me return and we shall forget all about it.”

The moment he says it and Piqué shifts as if he were actually uncomfortable, Andrés knows that this is not the end of his ordeal.

“Look, I wish I could, but things are proving to be a little more complicated than that.”

“A little?”

Piqué rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine, a lot. But I’m working on it, alright?”

“Piqué,” Andrés presses on. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know!”

“No. You do. You’re just not telling me,” Andrés insists. The wind is picking up. In the distance, waves are crushing against the shore relentlessly.

“I can’t lie, Andrés. You know I can’t,” Piqué replies.

“But you can evade the truth. So tell me, what did you do to me?”

The other cupid shifts on the sand, fiddles with the hem of his grey tunic like he’s nervous and it is ridiculous and Andrés finds himself getting annoyed, because Piqué has no idea what it’s like. Perhaps he likes humans and perhaps he enjoys pretending to be like them, but he hasn’t got the faintest clue as to how it feels. It’s almost taunting. Piqué worries his lower lip and glances upwards and a thought occurs to Andrés.

“Don’t you dare disappear on me now, Piqué. I need to go home.”

Piqué’s chest expands as if he were actually breathing and it makes… Andrés is not sure what it is exactly that’s resurfacing from his human core, but it burns unpleasantly and makes his blood boil. 

“I’m working on it, Andrés. I promise. I’ll figure it out. You just – hang in there. Do what you do best, right? Play a little with our two lovebirds and all.”

“This is not a game, Piqué, I –”

Then he’s gone. Andrés wakes up with a start. 

Xavi’s bedroom is dark except for the faint light of a street lantern seeping through the thin curtains. It’s almost eerily quiet so Andrés can hear his own heartbeat thundering against his ribs and presses his hands down to his chest as if he could stop his heart from moving like it naturally does. It’s an alien object inside of him, as far as he is concerned and he is not comfortable with it at all. He wants it to stop, he just wants this confusion to be over and maybe, if this mortal frame were to die, he can return home. 

Andrés stills, looks towards the window. Xavi’s flat is considerably high up. It would –

He swallows down the sudden lump in his throat, throws the blankets to the side and slides out of bed. The floor is cold, but Andrés kneels down nonetheless, sits back on his heels and holds his hands out, palms facing skyward. He feels uncertain as to how to proceed; he’s so far from home, so far from Him and he… he’s never had to pray like this before – he has always been in His presence, touched by His grace.

But Andrés feels lost, strayed off his right path, mislead by a lapse of thought. He feels like he has failed. So he does the only thing he can think of. He kneels, and he prays.

 

The next day dawns with a promise of snow. At least that is what it seems like to Andrés. The air is clinking with cold and frost and when he presses the tip of his finger against the window long enough, it tickles and goes numb. Flower-like shapes are ghosting over the glass; Andrés blows air against it and watches his breath fade again. 

He turns his head to the side where Xavi is busying himself with a few piles of paper, all presumably containing a different content. Xavi’s been a bit more fidgety today, Andrés thinks. Not… nervous or even anxious. He can’t say. He doesn’t know – he needs an encyclopaedia concerning human feelings. Perhaps he should just start one himself, make a list of bodily symptoms and how they relate to his state of mind. 

He continues to observe the on-going outside Xavi’s apartment building. People hurry past, desperate to flee from the cold as if it were actually possible, desperate to enter warmth and comfort and the shelter of their own homes. Thick jackets and long coats cover their bodies, hats pulled down to shield off their faces; a few cars, a handful of people walking their shivering dogs, a couple of brave ones riding their bikes. 

From where Andrés is standing at the window, he can almost pretend that he is back home, surrounded by his fellow cupids and pleasantly aware of His presence. The illusion only lasts a few moments at a time before his heart throbs when Xavi brushes past him and the warmth radiating off his body makes Andrés aware of his own flesh.

It doesn’t snow, but the sky is white with clouds.

 

People fall in and out of love. Andrés doesn’t shoot magic arrows at them that infect everyone with lifelong lust and content and happiness. There will be the occasional misjudgement on people’s part. They stray off their paths and test the waters and discover various meanings of love and heartbreak and despair and healing. Andrés doesn’t play a part in that, because there’s always a journey for everyone to undertake on their own before Andrés can show them the light. Some people take longer than others but that doesn’t make it any less real. 

Andrés is never wrong, he doesn’t make mistakes and the ones he guides – they stay together. Because he knows, because something primal to his being tells him all he needs. 

Now, he doesn’t have it. He can’t rely on the same senses, but Andrés wants to, almost needs to think, to believe, that he can trust even his human instincts with regards to love; a gut feeling that can differentiate between right and wrong. 

And somehow, the longer he watches Xavi and Villa, the more he observes and listens and gets to know them, the more he can feel something grow in the pit of his stomach. It’s not the peaceful satisfaction that Andrés would associate with finding the perfect match or the quiet calm that tells him there’s not much more work left for him to do. Xavi and Villa love each other, that remains beyond doubt, but there is something that just seems… off when Andrés tries to look further than that. 

He can’t shake it off. Can’t shake off the feeling (and he’s still new to them, so he might be mistaken) that something just doesn’t fit.

 

It’s been a little over a week – nine days to be exact – so it comes as no surprise that Xavi has to go to work. Andrés just doesn’t expect it to be at night and to have Villa keeping him company. Xavi leaves just past nine, sending a long stare in Villa’s direction, who shrugs and gets out his laptop to start stabbing at the keys. 

Andrés looks at the closed front door for a few moments before leaning back against the couch cushions. He pulls his legs in and glances over to Villa. His laptop’s screen is illuminating his face, he seems absorbed, so Andrés trains his eyes back on the black TV. 

“You can watch, you know,” Villa tells him suddenly without tearing his attention away from his work, eyes glued to whatever it is he is writing down with ferocious speed. 

“Watch what?”

“The game,” Villa replies, still not looking at him. “Barça is playing Espanyol. It’s kind of an important game, ‘s why Xavi’s covering it.” Andrés hums his understanding, connecting the facts and Villa points to the remote. “Second channel, if you’re interested.”

Andrés is not, not really, but he thinks about Xavi, about getting to know him and – for a lack of better wording – makes him tick. “Don’t you want to watch it?”

Villa shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not really into football,” then he continues to type.

Andrés hesitates for a second, then he reaches over to the coffee table and grabs the remote. The TV comes to life with a flicker, already set on the right channel and the colours flood the room, paint the walls and Andrés isn’t sure what to make of it; of the big field and masses of people swinging flags. It is almost like a crusade, only stacked into a stadium seemingly all consuming and alive. There are chants filling his ears.

His skin prickles. Andrés glances down and tugs on his sleeve just enough to reveal skin with raised pores, as if he were cold, but he isn’t and he doesn’t understand, because it spreads like ants crawling over his skin as he moves his eyes back towards the screen. 

Andrés has never watched football. In fact, he hasn’t spent a moment of his existence watching a game of any kind. Nevertheless, it’s not difficult to follow, it’s not difficult to understand and before he knows it, he’s deeply engulfed, deeply fascinated by this display of utmost human nature, of their vices and traits and virtues all rolled out, in the open for everyone to examine. There is so much passion, so much resilience and anger and frustration and Andrés – he sits back and tries to keep his breath even. Villa is furiously typing away in the background and Andrés feels his gaze on him every once in a while, but he can’t tear himself away. 

He wonders, towards the end of the game, if he could find Xavi in the mass of people, if he’s sitting high up or standing close to the impeccably cut grass where the photographers are. He wonders if Xavi is happy, if it makes him happy that his team (at least Andrés is pretty sure it’s Xavi’s team) is winning. And he thinks he feels – relief. Relief that Xavi won’t return home and be upset, that he might even be smiling and it’s not until the stadium is already almost cleared that Andrés notices a slight twinge in his cheeks and realises that the corners of his mouth are turned upwards. 

Andrés runs a hand over his face, doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the sensation that fingertips leave on skin. After he’s taken a deep breath, after he thinks he’s composed himself enough, he looks up and finds Villa staring at him, blankly, and something settles at the bottom of his stomach. It spreads, slowly, chillingly and Andrés has to fight the urge to squirm in his seat. Villa’s eyes are dark and piercing and peeling away and seeing through and then he looks down like nothing happened and Andrés only breathes again when he hears keys turning the front door’s lock.

It’s already past midnight, he realises, when Xavi appears in the living room, face red from the cold, eyes still shimmering with excitement. And then there it is. This smile that is so honest and heartfelt, emphasizing the soft lines that already mark Xavi’s face, that tell stories of joy and of heartbreak and make him look so infinitely more… beautiful.

Xavi says something and it might be directed at Andrés, it might not, he can’t tell; there’s a sudden buzz filling his ears, drowning out everything else in the room, like a low and constant drumming that leaves his skin prickly. So he watches, numbly, as Xavi drops his bag on the table next to Villa’s laptop. It makes a few papers lift off and sail down and Villa scoffs, frowns, and gathers them up again before responding to whatever it is Xavi is just telling him. They’re casually conversing as Xavi slips out of coat and scarf, perfectly at ease with each other and it should be so obvious, so easy for him to see and to say that this is right, this is the end of the road for both of them. Yet Andrés looks and he sees and – 

And it’s not. 

It’s not that soft, dulcet tinkle, like a delicate bell exuding a light hum that Andrés is familiar with. Instead it tastes bitter and vicious, so unpleasant that Andrés wants to tear his eyes away, but he finds himself unable to. It makes him grit his teeth to control the tension that has suddenly gripped his body, dig his fingers into his forearms until it stings. He tries to breathe.

It’s when Villa shuts his laptop and stuffs it into his bag. When he glances up while Xavi is packing pulling off his gloves. When he stills and Xavi pauses too and Villa leans forward, lifts his hand and with a quick, swift motion of his fingers wipes something off Xavi’s cheek that looks faintly like the traces of blue paint. When this simple yet intimate gesture makes Andrés almost gasp for air. 

He feels – 

“Jealous?” Xavi asks and raises his eyebrows at Villa.

“Of what?” Villa huffs.

“Of Barça leading the table by seven points already.”

Villa smiles tiredly. “You know I like Sporting.”

Then they both simultaneously turn to look at Andrés. He thinks it might be because he made some sort of noise, but he can’t be sure. He feels like he’s drowning; at least that’s what he imagines drowning to feel like. 

“Andrés,” Xavi says tentatively. “Are you okay?”

Andrés tries to nod, because Xavi looks worried and he shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t concern himself with Andrés, because Andrés shouldn’t even be here. His neck stays stiff as he gets up from the coach with trembling legs, ground sickeningly spinning beneath his feet. He takes a hasty step back, then another, and another, and when his lower back hits something solid, he turns, hands sliding on the wall until they grip the frame of the door. 

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s bolting out of the apartment. Andrés slips on the stairs, finding it hard to get his mind-to-body coordination up to the speed he’s now moving with, and he barely catches himself before he falls. Nevertheless he keeps going until he’s out of the building and he feels the cold, hard pavement beneath his feet. Andrés should stop right there; he is not wearing a jacket, he is not wearing shoes and he doesn’t know where he is supposed to run, what he is even running from. 

He turns to the left and wills his legs to move, fast, straight-ahead. It doesn’t take long for the cold to seep through his socks and they soon feel numb, as does the rest of his body, freezing air hitting his face and his arms moving tirelessly at his sides. Andrés doesn’t know how long he’s been running for when his lungs start to burn so painfully that he has to stop. Shaking, drained, exhausted – he staggers and falls, back to a wall, slides down and stretches out his legs.

Andrés flattens his palms against the icy concrete. His heart is beating so fast that Andrés can no longer ignore or deny its existence. This human body he has been banned into… it’s frail and vulnerable and it feels every degree that is below comfortable. But it is also, without any chance for error, telling him exactly what his mind has been trying to overlook for days. 

But he can’t, not anymore, because it is painful and numbing all the same and it makes his heart twist and rebel until there is no room for oxygen in his chest and –

“Andrés?”

His head jerks. It’s Xavi, standing a few feet away. He hasn’t put his jacket back on – probably didn’t have time to, considering how quickly Andrés fled the scene – but at least he’s wearing shoes. His breath comes out in white puffs, strikingly contrasting the dark street and his cheeks are flushed like he ran after Andrés as fast as his legs would allow him. Xavi takes a few steps towards him and Andrés eyes start to water because for a couple of moments, he forgets to blink. Then Xavi slides down the wall and sits down next to him. 

Andrés expects him to say something, to ask him why he bolted like the crazy person he is supposed to be, perhaps is in everyone else’s mind. But Xavi stays quiet, maybe waiting for Andrés to say something, maybe waiting for Andrés to do something – maybe not waiting for anything at all. So Andrés stares ahead again at the cars parked on the side of the road, flecked with dirt and windows already frozen over. A few windows in the buildings that line the street are still illuminated, but it’s mostly quiet and dark, calm, cold. 

Eventually, Andrés swallows tickly. “I’m so confused,” he says with a stinging throat. His fingers are digging into the fabric enveloping his legs, steadily shaking. “I just – just don’t know. My head is so full and so empty at the same time and I don’t… I can’t –”

“Andrés.” 

A warm hand touches his. Xavi slowly pries Andrés’ fingers away from his trousers, then intertwines them with his. He is sure to feel their tremble, conclude on Andrés’ true state of mind, but Andrés doesn’t mind so much. The rough underside of Xavi’s thumb is tracing a circle onto his wrist, calming down his racing pulse and although the sensation is still new, it’s something Andrés would be happy to get used to.

“It’s okay,” Xavi continues. “Just – breathe, for now, alright? It’s okay.”

Andrés does and after a while, the beat of his heart feels less rigid, slower, quieter. Yet his mind is still unsettled and on edge, racing away and –

“You love what you do, don’t you?”

He feels Xavi’s eyes on him. “I do,” Xavi says after a moment’s hesitation, a hint of confusion evident in his voice. “Hasn’t always been that way though.”

Andrés turns his head to the side; their eyes meet. “Why?”

Xavi shrugs. “Because it was hard. I’ve… always wanted to write, always loved sport; it was a natural conclusion. But my parents didn’t want me to get into journalism. At all. In their eyes, I had more potential.” He pauses, and Andrés can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows long-buried frustration back down. “Now they’re proud, because I was determined enough, ambitious enough. But it wasn’t easy.”

“The difficulty of something doesn’t prove its rightness.”

Xavi smiles softly. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Then how did you decide? How did you… go on?”

It’s another shrug, another subtle twitch of his lips. “I don’t know, to be honest. Sometimes people think they know what’s best for you, or the best anything. They might even mean it well.” Xavi laughs softly. “Sometimes, they all tell you the same thing, over and over again, because it makes sense, because it seems right, but – it’s not. And you can’t explain why. You just know it. In your heart. And maybe that’s because you’re the only fool naïve enough, or blind enough, but well… It’s the way it is. Was the same with me and Villa, you know?” 

Andrés does know. And now he thinks he understands.

“Anyway. We should head back. Don’t want you to catch pneumonia.”

He holds Andrés’ hands all the way back to his flat.

***

 

Andrés comes down with a cold the next day. It’s not a surprise, Xavi guesses, considering. Andrés has barely more on his bones than skin and this winter is already colder than the ones of the past decade. It’s not really the perfect climate for late night runs in jumper and socks. But Xavi also thinks that the mind plays a large part in getting sick and Andrés is… deteriorating in front of his eyes. Something is gnawing at him, perhaps – surely? – subconsciously and Xavi has seen the dark shadows beneath his eyes, sees them every day and it’s an easy conclusion to say that Andrés doesn’t sleep well, maybe not at all. And again, considering the circumstances – that’s not a surprise either.

On the first day, Xavi realises that Andrés is still in bed at nine o’clock; he’s usually awake no later than seven. When Xavi walks into his bedroom, he sees Andrés tangled in the sheets, glazed over eyes aimlessly staring at the ceiling and he is quick to place a hand on his forehead. He is burning up, blinking at Xavi with an unfocused gaze and instead of heading to the kitchen to get some tea, perhaps, or cold medicine, or a thermometer; Xavi sits down on the edge of the bed, hand lingering on Andrés’ hot skin. 

He stays for a long while in absolute silence, Andrés the absolute picture of misery, before he adjusts his daily routine. Xavi rummages through his various cabinets for ginger and lemons, makes a quick run to the chemist and the shops. In between editing an article and going over chapter drafts for his book, he heads in and out of the bedroom to make sure Andrés drinks his hot ginger, eats the broth, is as comfortable as he can be and when it’s almost night and Andrés holds on to his arm, says “stay”, Xavi doesn’t even think twice before lying down on the other half of the bed. 

On the second day, Xavi wakes up at the crack of dawn with a stiff neck. He finds Andrés still fast asleep next to him, so he gets up quietly, has a shower and gets a cup of coffee. Settling down at his clustered desk in the living room, he re-reads the tactical review of last night’s match and sends it off to the editor-in-chief, checks La Liga’s schedule of the day, finds a few of Villa’s notes. Xavi rings him up, but it goes straight to voicemail, so he doesn’t bother again; if Villa needs his notes, he’ll know where to find them. 

It’s not until he’s pouring his second cup, eyes distractedly following the sweep hand on the clock, that Xavi realises something is bothering him. It’s a weird notion to have without present reason, almost as if he is annoyed with himself and he pauses in the middle of the kitchen, stares at the wall, and can’t for the life of him figure out what the hell is going on in his head. Or maybe his gut. He can’t say. So he stands in his kitchen while the times passes eight, between unmatched chairs and a dripping coffee machine. He feels – 

Something. 

Xavi would argue that it doesn’t make sense, but he’s never been the most rational or logical person, so he isn’t actually used to making sense. However, this is downright disturbing and he starts to pace around the kitchen, fidgeting and tugging on some drying towels, drinking more coffee than is possibly good for him until he hears the sound of bare feet moving over his creaky parquet floor. Xavi stops in the doorway.

Andrés is standing in the living room, flannel trousers and a dark sweatshirt that fits him almost perfectly, and he is still looking dreadfully sick. But there is some colour in his face that is not there because of his fever, and Xavi guesses that he is getting better. Andrés seems disoriented for a moment, then his eyes find Xavi’s and his entire posture relaxes so rapidly, tension slipping off his shoulder like a piece of fabric.

Xavi wants to tell him good morning, but there’s something clogging his throat, so he just coughs awkwardly, almost spills his coffee and rubs a hand over his strangely heated face; maybe he contracted Andrés’ cold. With a quiet and raspy voice, Andrés asks for tea and Xavi nods with a smile. 

When he returns with a cup of steaming peppermint tea – Andrés’ favourite – he finds the other already back in the bedroom, draped across the mattress, almost asleep again. 

On the third day, Xavi gets up early to get groceries, calls his editor about a few changes in the book, about the article he is writing, and then a friend at the paper to check in with any reports on missing people. He feels treacherously relieved when he hears no news. Then he gets his notes, puts the TV on the sports channel – on mute – and starts writing.

Some time after noon, Andrés taps in on bare feet, still bleary-eyed but much steadier on his legs. Xavi scoots over, slightly adjusts his position so that Andrés fits against his side. They get takeout for dinner and Xavi extends an invite toward Villa, who is still in no contact to the outside world, so it’s just him and Andrés, again, but Xavi finds he doesn’t mind at all, even when Andrés falls asleep just after ten and almost spills his Szechuan chicken all over Xavi’s couch.

Only when he is about to close his eyes, occupying one half of his own bed with nothing but a small gap separating them, Andrés’ breath coming out in short puffs, does Xavi realise that the thing that has constantly been gnawing away at the back of his mind, bothering him – is the fact that nothing bothers him about this at all.

On the fourth day, Xavi calls a few contacts covering the local news and feels guilty about feeling relieved when he knows Andrés will remain an anonymous stranger with amnesia for at least another day or two. He works and Andrés gets better and they don’t talk much on that day. Xavi finishes a chapter and rewrites another, and Andrés finds a tattered copy of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, which he skims through until almost midnight.

Day five and six, in retrospect, blend together and later Xavi won’t be able to say what happened on which day. On the fifth or sixth day, he sits across from Andrés at the kitchen table and before he’s realised that he’s moved, he wipes strawberry jam off the corner of Andrés’ mouth and stares at the red drop slowly trailing down his thumb.  
On the fifth or sixth day, Andrés accidentally drops a bag of flour in search of teabags. It sends a whirlwind of white through the kitchen like a particularly greasy sort of snow, almost entirely covering both of them and for a minute, they look at each other. Xavi laughs harder than he has in a very long time.

On the fifth or sixth day, Xavi wakes up and finds Andrés’ fingers curled around his wrist, just above his pulse. They’re pale and delicate and just a tad too cold, but Xavi finds himself staying painfully still, looking at them, until Andrés stirs and wakes up.  
On the fifth or sixth day, Xavi notices that he knows Andrés’ favourite kind of tea. He knows that Andrés will always wear at least one, if not two pairs of socks, even in bed and that he likes the combination of cream cheese and jam, the smell of cinnamon but not nutmeg and how he looks when he is about to wake up or fall asleep.

On the seventh day, Xavi realises he’s falling in love.

 

***

 

Andrés hasn’t been alive for very long and there are thing he can’t be sure about; how it feels to swim in the ocean or walk barefooted across heated pebbles or what it’s like to laugh until one has to cry. But there are a few things he does know, one of them being his dislike of large crowds. Perhaps it’s because he has yet to familiarize himself with the concept of space. Where he is from, there is so much of it that it has lost all relevance, but now he doesn’t have it, it’s a luxury Andrés dearly misses. 

There are people to his left and his right and behind and in front of him, constantly moving, swarming like ants and the only reason Andrés doesn’t panic is the fact that he’s got Xavi’s sleeve to cling on, to dig his fingers into. Villa is a few steps ahead, cutting a path through the crowd towards the stadium. Andrés hasn’t yet figured out how he even happened to get dragged along. Remembering Villa’s expression earlier, he hasn’t either.

It takes thirty-one minutes and sixteen seconds – he’s counted – for them to find their seats and when Villa complains about the cold, Xavi scolds him, talks about their seats and bribery and curses. When he catches Andrés’ gaze though, he smiles sheepishly, points at his friend, and rolls his eyes. Andrés feels his lips twitch.

What happens then feels like a blur; an intermezzo of noises and colours and sensations. Andrés is so overwhelmed by it, by the sudden pulse of life going through the entire stadium, that he can only sit still and focus on his continued breathing, and that alone already seems like a challenge. The people around him stand up and they sing and they clap and shout and there is so much emotion glistening in their eyes; Andrés fears that if he turns to look at Xavi, he won’t be able to handle it anymore. 

The cold seeps through his coat, but he barely notices, trying to follow the game, trying to understand how a simple activity like this can affect thousands. Xavi had explained the rules, but considering the pace everything is happening at, Andrés has a hard time applying them. The only thing he can say for sure is that both teams part after the first half without having scored. 

Xavi is in a deep discussion with someone sitting one row in front of them – he has a pass dangling around his neck and by the looks of it, Xavi knows him – and Andrés catches Villa’s eyes. Villa smiles tiredly and shrugs, obviously not as taken with the match as everyone else and he stifles a yawn with his palm, moves his head to stretch his neck muscles. Then he leans towards Andrés.

“You’ll get used to it,” Villa tells him and Andrés isn’t quite sure what he means, or perhaps what he is truly implying. He hopes Villa is warming to him. Or not. Andrés can’t say.

He is still in denial about a lot of things.

“Don’t listen to him.” Xavi points at Villa over his shoulder, other elbow still perched on the backrest of the seat in front of him. “He’s just prickly because I forced him to socialize while he’s in hermit mode.”

Villa snorts. “If that’s your idea of socialising, you will never find love.”

It is probably only meant as a joke. Villa’s voice is dry and the rise of his eyebrows… But Xavi eyes widen just slightly and their gazes lock and Andrés can feel something leap in his chest. He can’t tell if Villa notices, if he pays any attention to them whatsoever, because he can’t tear himself from the depth of Xavi’s gaze. His hands twitch, and a treacherous quiver runs through his body and Andrés feels the urge to – he wants only –

A shrill whistle slices through the tension like a knife. Xavi flinches visibly and Andrés thinks his heart stops beating for the fraction of a second as the game gets underway again. Slowly, Xavi turns his attention back to the players on the pitch and Andrés lets out a shaky breath. He wants to run again, but it’s no option now; and it’s another reason for him to dislike crowds and to miss space.

 

In the end, three goals are scored, and Xavi is relieved and ecstatic that all three go into the opposition’s net. They exit the stadium and Villa makes a swift escape, rumbling about work and Xavi and bloody obsessions and for a brief moment, Andrés thinks that he should be the one leaving, that Xavi and Villa should be left alone, but even if it comes close to admitting defeat to Piqué, this is something Andrés can’t deny (although it does complicate matters) – Xavi and Villa simply aren’t meant to be. And any attempt to match them up could eventually backfire.

It occurs to him that it possibly already did.

Xavi starts to move away from the masses pouring out of the stadium and Andrés gladly follows. They walk in silence, and although it will probably take a while to walk to Xavi’s flat, they might as well do it. It’s a clear night, clankingly cold because of that, but the air smells fresh, like winter, if winter smelled of anything. It doesn’t, yet Andrés still memorises and categorises, although he’s given up on organising most part of his brain, much like he’s given up on this doomed mission of his. If it weren’t blasphemy, he’d curse Piqué to hell and back for sending him into this mess.

Worrying his lower lip with his teeth, Andrés sneaks a glance at Xavi, whose face is relaxed, cheeks faintly coloured, scarf tightly wrapped around his neck. He catches up to him, tries to match his steps to Xavi’s and their shoulders bump. Xavi’s eyes flicker towards him, he smiles briefly and Andrés’ pulse feels out of rhythm for a moment. They keep walking for a while, night slowly drowning out the city’s noises as the still bustling centre is left behind basking in lights, streets painted in dark grey and black and the occasional splatter of orange from a lonely street lantern.

Andrés relishes sharing this silence with Xavi, despite knowing he shouldn’t, despite knowing that this illusion he is wandering in resembles the one he has taken on to be here. He is a fraud and a deceiver and now he finds himself to be a failure on top of this, yet Andrés can’t regret, or feel guilty, or feel anything beside utter peace and content in Xavi’s presence. 

He takes a few step, comes to a halt, and realises as he turns around that Xavi has stilled a few feet away from him, still chewing on his lip, hands deeply buried in the pockets of his coat. The knot of his scarf has come lose and Andrés fights the urge to tuck it back into place. He wants to say something, but there is a certain expression in Xavi’s eyes that makes him swallow any word back down. This situation, this mood, whatever it is, it reminds him of his late night run and it feels weirdly heavy; so heavy that Andrés can feel a pressure between his temples, and a weight pushing down on his shoulders and his chest, making it hard to breathe and stay steady on his feet.

Xavi is looking at him, and Andrés can’t –

“What is it?”

He sees Xavi swallow, releasing his lip, then he draws his hands out of his pockets and rubs his face. Xavi grabs the back of his own neck and does a 360 degree turn before letting out a long, uneven breath, eyes settling on Andrés once more. His smile is crooked and seems forced.

“You can tell me,” Andrés says. 

Xavi shakes his head. “See, I don’t – I don’t think I can. Or should.” His hands find his scarf and he ties it anew. “I think it’s just Villa getting into my head. Or something else. Or nothing at all. Yeah, honestly, my head’s feeling pretty empty right now.”

Andrés isn’t quite sure what to say to that. He’s lost grasp of the situation, the entire mood of it and finds it hard to keep up with the way Xavi is going through a spectrum of different emotions right in front of his eyes.

“God,” Xavi calls out suddenly, “I feel like some bloody psycho, like… Like the biggest creep imaginable.” He takes a few hasty steps towards Andrés, stops abruptly and Andrés can’t help but tense. Xavi is so close that Andrés can smell the frost on his skin, can feel the heat of his breath like intoxicating perfume obscuring his senses. “Please punch me for this.”

Andrés stops short. “For wha –”

Xavi’s lips are cold. They’re as cold as the fingers brushing across his jaw and his cheeks, yet there is a ball of heat that suddenly explodes within his chest, so violently that Andrés feels his legs quiver. His heart thumps heavily, once, twice; then Xavi’s lips are gone and Andrés feels so perceptibly colder. He blinks at Xavi, still so close that if Andrés tilted his head, their noses would touch inevitable, lips pulsing and tingling, making him yearn for a touch he didn’t even know he craved. Xavi’s hands are still ghostly framing his face, but he starts to pull back, face stricken with –

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Xavi says, voice throaty and softly trembling. “I don’t –”

Andrés buries his hand in Xavi’s scarf and holds on tight. “No,” he replies, feels the tension slide off his shoulders like a heavy cloak. “Don’t be,” and he reaches out when Xavi’s hands drop to his side. First almost flinching back when he presses the first hesitant finger to Xavi’s chin, Andrés slowly starts to trace it along, outlining his face with soft pressure before eventually curling his palm against icy skin. He adds his other hand, lips still parted, still pulsing, and lets his thumbs paint invisibly over the dip of Xavi’s mouth, the tip of his nose, the curve of his brows, so utterly engulfed and entranced and shivering with feelings that are too many for his small frame.

Xavi’s eyes remain on him the entire time and they are deeper than the universe Andrés has gazed at his entire existence.

 

Neither of them sleeps that night. The large couch in the living room long abandoned, Xavi lies next to Andrés, bodies turned towards each other, hands joined between them. Xavi smiles, softly, briefly, and Andrés knows that against the backdrop of eternity, this might be the moment he will cherish most.

Outside, the sky opens up and it starts to snow.

 

Andrés watches Xavi fall asleep in the early hours of the morning, watches as his features relax almost imperceptibly, breath remaining as even as it’d been the entire night and Andrés feels a persistent tug right behind his sternum, urging him to move closer, to reach out but he doesn’t want to wake Xavi. 

It’s nothing spectacular, not like some stories Andrés has witnessed, not like some of those terribly unrealistic shows on TV. And yet this is how it happens; with the sun slowly rising, with the first couple of cars chugging along the street, with the radiator bubbling in the background and Xavi lying in front of him, in a crinkled t-shirt, cheek pressed to a squished pillow and duvet draped over his hips – that Andrés discovers he’s in love.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to Andrés. It really shouldn’t. Considering what he is, what he does. But this recognition hits him hard, an almost physical punch to his chest, making his body go rigid and then freeze in shock as he holds his breath and stares into Xavi’s sleeping face. 

It’s as though he is caught in a vortex and everything is spinning, creating a mess of his thoughts and his pulse and making his chest ache so bittersweetly that Andrés could appreciate the feeling and loathe it all the same. Shifting, keeping a stern control over his subtly shaking body, Andrés sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He spends a moment looking out the window at the clouds swirling on the horizon, soft tufts of grey, speckled with yellow where the sun comes through and with a fracture of clarity, of sanity, Andrés wonders if anybody is watching him right now.

The floor is solid, grounding, and yet Andrés feels dizzy, light and heavy, warm and cold; his heart leaps pathetically, calling for attention. He fumbles for the light switch and closes the bathroom door behind him. Xavi has put up an antique mirror with a wooden frame above the sink and for the first time, Andrés does more than simply glance at his reflection. It is odd how it doesn’t show on his face; the confusing chaos grumbling behind this pale and fragile façade.

Andrés finds it ironic; ironic how he can even dare to call himself an expert on love, when he, until now, hasn't even had the faintest clue what love feels like. What it means to be in love. And now that he knows, he is so full of doubt and fear and regret over having toyed with love all his existence. Because how could he have arrogated to know more about love than the people who have known variations of love all their lives? How could he have claimed to know how to control something that – which he knows now – is equally strong enough to lift him off of his feet and yet so fragile that he fears it might shatter any moment.

The intensity of recognition and of accepting the fact that he is nothing – nothing but a manipulative fraud; it takes Andrés’ breath away and empties his lungs and fills them with so much pain and despair that he has to hunch over, crouch down on the floor and hug his knees close because he can feel something burst deep inside of him.

It’s how Xavi finds him a few hours later. He doesn’t ask questions, just slumps down next to Andrés and leans his forehead against Andrés’ temple.

 

This time, there is no sand. No salty breeze blowing around his ears and no waves gently brushing against the shore in the close distance. Instead there is only ash, black and sharp, smoke filling his nose, making his eyes sting and when he looks up, the sky is a blazing red. It’s raining fire and sulphur.

He’s standing in front of Sodom’s gates. 

“You really know how to set a stage.” Andrés turns around. Piqué is standing close, flames throwing shadows across his face, obscuring his features. He looks misplaced here, a tall statue almost radiating light, a pure appearance amidst chaos and destruction. “A tad dramatic though, don’t you think?”

“Dramatic,” Andrés repeats numbly. “What is this all to you, Piqué? Nothing more than a game, you said. A bet. But I guess I only have myself to blame for this disobedience. For this stupidity.”

“Andrés –”

“Can you hear their screams?” Andrés asks and watches Piqué’s eyebrows furrow. “Of course you can. But they go right through you; they mean nothing to you. You can’t feel their pain. You have no idea what pain is.”

Piqué shakes his head. “I do know, Andrés, what are you saying?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Andrés replies. He feels drained. The smoke burns in his lungs, the screams deafen his ears. “You don’t know what it feels like. And how could you? Yet you assume, you can only assume, but it doesn’t mean anything to you and nothing ever will. You remember this just as well as I do. But you look upon this city, and you only see His will.”

An eardrum-shattering thunder rolls across the plain. Andrés watches buildings collapse, feels the earth groaning and trembling beneath his bare feet as if purgatory’s flames were getting ready to swallow the city from below. There’s a sharp pain in his chest, a bitter taste on his tongue. 

“I’ve changed. I’m not who I was before. Because I remember this, and I feel their pain and I tell you, it rips at my soul. Everything I have seen is burning holes into my soul and it is left tainted and incomplete.”

Piqué takes a hesitant step closer, but he keeps his distance, as if Andrés had contracted a disease and well, maybe he has. “Andrés, you will return home shortly, I promise, and everything will be how it was before.”

Andrés laughs dryly. “But it won’t. How am I supposed to forget this? I’ve fallen, and I am feeling, Piqué. I suffer and I love and I will be punished for this, because it cannot be undone. It cannot. And I fear I don’t want it to be.”

Another hellish sound thunders around, orange lightning flashes across the sky, stabbing through black clouds and Andrés wants to lay down and cry for countless souls that are being dragged down into an endless abyss. Piqué’s expression is almost wondrous. Somewhere above, shadows are flickering and a serene smile plays around Piqué’s lips. Andrés tries not to be angry; Piqué isn’t to blame for this, at least. 

“Well,” he says, nodding towards the sky and Andrés follows his gaze. “Seems like at least he has enjoyed this.”

 

***

 

They meet at University, he and Villa, in Professor Aragonés’ class on Modern Literary Studies. Villa is late, gets scolded, finds the only empty seat in the lecture hall next to Xavi and asks for a pen. They hit it off straight away and when Xavi thinks back on in now, he guesses he could’ve fallen for Villa right then and there. Yet at the time, there is Villa’s delicately faced boyfriend Silva, who Xavi likes well enough to deeply bury whatever attraction it is he feels towards Villa. They break up a year into their degree, but by then, Xavi has Javier and then Elsa and over the years, for both of them, they come and go. 

It occurs to Xavi that their relationship is one almost solely defined by bad timing. Yet Villa always remains Xavi’s main fixture, the focal point of his barely present social life, the first person he calls, the last person he thinks about before going to sleep at night.

Well. Until now.

Fingers snap in front of his face and Xavi is pulled out of a trance he wasn’t really aware of being in. He tears his eyes away from where they’ve been glued to Andrés, who is still so deeply engrossed in that Hemingway book that he’s probably not even noticed Xavi’s gaze on him. Xavi imperceptibly shakes his head and directs his attention at Villa, who has raised both of his eyebrows so high that his usually smooth forehead is covered in deep lines. 

“Third time,” Villa says and Xavi furrows his brows.

“What?”

Villa rolls his eyes. “This is the third time you’ve zoned out on me in the last hour,” he elaborates. “Care to tell me what’s going on? Because I can tell there’s something going on. Don’t lie. I know there is.”

Xavi glances over to where Andrés is sitting on the couch, book in his lap, earphones on; he’d discovered Xavi’s iPod and taken an immediate liking to the one or two classical albums Xavi has on it, Albéniz or Vivaldi, he’s not sure. He sighs. It’s been two days and nothing’s happened since that kiss and that almost frighteningly intense yet peaceful night, but Xavi would be an idiot not to notice the change, the slight tilt in that weirdly constructed relationship with Andrés. 

“Yeah, well – you’re right. Something did happen.” He doesn’t know what else to say though, because it’s not like much has in fact happened, and he doesn’t know how to even begin to explain to Villa what is going on.

“Very helpful,” Villa replies in a dry tone. “Care to elaborate on that?”

“Not really, no,” Xavi answers and is ashamed to admit that he shrinks slightly when Villa sends him a pointed glare. “It’s complicated.”

“With you, it always is.” It’s then when Villa picks up on those flickering glances; he’s most likely noticed before, but now he draws the right conclusion and his eyes widen slightly with what Xavi hopes is surprise rather than shock. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. I tell you to keep you distance and you go and sleep with –”

“Oh my God,” Xavi interrupts him. “Nothing’s happened, alright? Jesus. Just – I kissed him. And then we slept in the same bed. With clothes. Not with each other.”

Villa looks at him, disbelieving and Xavi guesses that it to any onlooker, it does seem like he’s making a mountain out of a molehill. So he understands why Villa says, “That can’t be all.”

And it’s not, far from it. “I can’t –” Xavi says, then he gets up without another word and heads into the kitchen, Villa close on his heels and his friend closes the door behind him. He lets out a shaky breath and rubs his hands over his face and he can’t say any of these things with Andrés in the same room, because – “It’s insane, okay?” he continues. “I don’t even… I don’t know what’s going on. I have no clue. I tried to get on with work and everything, but – I can’t help it. I cannot, honest to God, stay away from him. He just – pulls me in, completely and…” He trails off, utterly exhausted and a little overwhelmed but the complexity that is this dilemma and also his life.

And it scares the crap out of him that he doesn’t particularly mind any of it.

Villa huffs. “Sounds almost like you’re –”

“In love?” Xavi surprises himself by saying that. “Well, I guess I am.”

Villa doesn’t say anything for so long that Xavi looks up from his feet. All expression is wiped off his friend’s face.

“You’re serious,” and it’s a far cry from his usual light-hearted but mocking tone. He looks almost – stunned, perhaps? But maybe that’s the wrong word. Xavi’s head is spinning. “Okay. This really is insane.”

“Tell me about it.”

Villa sinks down on one of the kitchen chairs. “Fuck, not that I’m not happy you’ve got out of your head a little, but – where is this going to go? What are you even going to do? I mean, he could have an epiphany and be out of your life tomorrow, for good. And I don’t even want to go into how creepy all of this is.”

“I know, okay, I know,” Xavi sighs, defeated, hands holding on tight to the kitchen counter, making his tendons shine white beneath his skin. “And I don’t know what I’m going to do, I don’t even know what to do right now. Just – is it bad that I don’t want him to remember anything, that I want him to stay?”

“Yeah, that’s bad.”

“I figured.”

Villa shifts in his chair and its legs screech quietly. Folding his hands on top of the table, he makes a face like he pities Xavi, almost. Xavi doesn’t think he should even be allowed to feel sorry for himself.

“So. What’s the plan?”

Xavi shrugs. “If only I knew.”

 

When he’s seen Villa out, Xavi heads back to the living room to find Andrés eyes on him, book still open on his knees, headphones now dangling around his pale neck. He stops short, feels his pulse picking up pace, feels his throat becoming itchy and tight. 

It’s pleasantly warm inside, warmer than Xavi usually keeps his flat, because Andrés is just always so cold. Right now he’s wearing one of Xavi’s jumpers, and Xavi’s not a big guy himself, but Andrés is so slender, so delicate that the collar droops slightly, pale neck and collarbone on display, sleeves brushing past his wrists and Xavi thinks he still feels those slim fingers leaving burning trails on his face.

It is absolute insanity and Xavi doesn’t think he has any means to stop it. He’s in free fall, and he keeps falling and he can’t pull the cord, is probably not even wearing a parachute and he guesses that even if he had one – he’d want to keep on falling. It should scare the shit out of him. Instead he returns Andrés’ look. 

“You seem unsettled,” Andrés tells him and imperceptibly scoots to the side, making more room for Xavi on the couch. 

Xavi finally manages to tear his feet away from that spot in the doorway and walks across the floor like on eggshells, with unsteady legs and weak knees. He sinks down and breathes, draws up one leg and starts to fiddle with a loose thread on the inside seam of his jeans.

“Yeah, I,” but he breaks off and shrugs, no clue what he’d say to Andrés. Maybe it’s the same for Andrés, but maybe it’s not and Xavi already feels as awful as he feels ecstatic about this. 

Suddenly there’s a hand on his, stilling his fidgeting, fingers still cold, but not nearly as cold as two nights ago when… Xavi’s thoughts trail off and he lifts his eyes. Andrés has shifted closer, their knees are almost touching and Xavi’s heart is in his throat. They’ve been sharing a bed; they’ve been sharing the same physical space for what seems like ages; yet there have only been a few lingering touches – there’s only been this one kiss. 

Andrés intertwines their fingers and stares at them in almost wonder. It feels so chaste and yet so painfully intimate that Xavi has trouble breathing. He closes his hand tight, holds on, feels the need to anchor himself before he drowns in this mess. 

“Listen, Andrés,” he starts and has no clue what to add, so he ends up sitting there, with his lips slightly parted, feeling like he’s sixteen all over again. Only there’s no awkward outing to his best friend. And his parents. Yeah, unsettled might be an understatement.

Their eyes stay locked. And Andrés’ are so clear, but he can’t see himself in them, not even the slightest hint of a reflection, which should perhaps freak him out a little, because who has eyes like that? So deep as if there were worlds hidden behind it, so deep that Xavi wants to lean forward and drown and he thinks he really could; drown in millennia veiled off, hidden away and Andrés’ touch comes so sudden that he just keeps himself from flinching away from it.

Andrés drops his gaze to his lips. 

The next moment stretches out until it becomes almost unbearable for Xavi and he feels hyperaware of his surroundings; the subtle bubbling of the radiators, the brush of fabric against the couch cushions, fingertips on his skin, his own heartbeat thumping in his chest. Then – 

He can’t tell who moves first, who leans in first and it doesn’t matter either way. The kiss is chaste and far too brief and when Andrés pulls away, looks at him with hooded eyes and his lips and cheeks are already flushed – Xavi can’t but lean in again, one hand still holding Andrés’, the other moving to settle on his neck, thumb pressing softly into the hollow below his jaw. Andrés’ pulse is racing and his nails are digging into the back of Xavi’s hand, and this is okay, it’s more than okay and when Andrés makes a noise, soft and breathless and hidden in his throat, heat bursts in his chest.

He angles his head, works their lips together. It’s still slow, careful, and Xavi can tell Andrés is timid, not hesitant anymore, perhaps unsure in a different way, but also so desperate, because Xavi can feel him tremble, can feel the blood rushing through his arteries. He aches for it, for more touches, for more sensations; it’s so overwhelming and it makes him feel off-balance and he has to stop, or he won’t be able to.

Andrés’ breath comes out shaky and cool against his still wet lips. 

“It’s just,” Xavi starts, because Andrés’ mouth seems to have pulled all the words up his throat and onto his tongue. “I’m terrified, actually, I think. Because this… I don’t know what this is, but I think I want to find out.” Andrés blinks, and perhaps he can’t quite follow, but Xavi has to get this out now. “All that’s in my head though, is that eventually, you’re going to remember, and you’re going to leave, and maybe – who knows – maybe you’re going to discover that you’re in love with someone else.” Xavi realises what he’s just said and stops short. “Not that I’m saying you are. Now. With me.”

He starts to pull pack. A cool and firm hand takes hold of his jaw. Andrés’ eyes are unusually focused, zoned in on him, and Xavi has trouble breathing again.

“Don’t,” he says. “I’m scared, too.”

“Of what?”

Andrés swallows thickly. “Of things that were. Of what things might become.”

“That sounds cryptic.”

Andrés doesn’t reply immediately, but this is the moment he chooses to move away slightly, to drop his hand and drape it over the one that’s still tightly gripping Xavi’s. He suddenly seems far away, eyes clouded over, thoughts shielded off and expression unreadable and ah, there it is, that treacherous little cloud of dread hovering over their heads. 

“Xavi. I need to tell you something.”

***

 

Xavi’s eyes are so open and honest that Andrés can’t take it anymore. He can still feel that soft but so significant pressure of lips on his, something that makes more nerves pulse with life than he thought his body had. And was it pleasant (what is he thinking? He can’t come up with any superlative that would describe this feeling) just a moment ago – now Andrés feels bitter with betrayal, all his own doing, his own failure as a being of any kind.

He’s not lying, hasn’t lied to Xavi per se, but he can’t keep the truth from him anymore

“Xavi. I need to tell you something,” he starts, when he doesn’t even know how to continue, how to explain any of it; how to make Xavi understand. 

Because he is scared, in every facet of the word, with every fibre of his mortal and immortal being. And the fact that Xavi is too, because of him, and that he is sitting across from Andrés now with wary and insecurity in his eyes, not saying a word because there is no thing to say for him, nothing to do except wait and –

“I,” he says, throat tight and chest aching, cradling Xavi’s hand between his, feeling skin. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“What do you mean?”

Andrés takes a deep breath, distractedly wonders about the sensation of air flowing in and out of his lungs, mixed with scents; his leftover peppermint tea on the table, a hint of snow from outside, the wilted pages of the book in his lap. 

“Promise me, that you will not interrupt me, no matter what it is I tell you, no matter how much you might want or feel the need to.” Xavi does hesitate, obvious confusion written all over his face and it would be so easy to shy away from it again, to continue the masquerade, but there is a pressure ever-present in his chest, seemingly pushing up words he’s kept bottled up since he fell. “I’m going to tell you a story.”

Then he begins.

He tells Xavi about the beginning, about the moment when light sprung from darkness and illuminated the world and engulfed it in warmth and about the first whispers of a song that strung together a melody so captivating it made all souls dance in its tune. He talks about exhaling water and shaping land and tiny particles fuelled with pure life, about breathing gentle winds and forming first words and about tiny sparks in existence, creating wonders beyond imagination and beyond mortal understanding.  
He tells him about painting skies and blossoming meadows, about conducting the tides and the rising of sun and moon, and about weaving fate. 

Andrés tells Xavi about the clouds, about their feathery and sticky texture and watching as they cast long shadows over the world. 

When he finally pauses, tired of words, Xavi is worrying his lower lip, looking even more confused than before. It’s dark in his living room, the sun outside long hidden behind the horizon and only the soft glow of a street lamp outside is drawing erratic patterns in orange and black onto the floor. 

“Andrés,” Xavi says quietly, as if he were afraid that the sound of his voice might break him into small pieces. “What are you – is this – I don’t understand.”

“I haven’t lost my memory. I… remember time, and worlds, and people. But I’m here now, because – I fell.”

“What?”

Andrés is aware of the fact that he is nothing more than an average human being right now, doesn’t have any of his abilities, but he still drops Xavi’s hand and frames his face instead, fingertips just brushing his temples and lets their eyes meet.

“I fell,” and he breathes out. 

He feels thoughts rushing through his head, images bleeding through his veins and he knows the moment they reach Xavi. He flinches away from Andrés, eyes wide in shock, and scrambles to his feet, socks slipping on the sleek floor. The carpet bundles up when Xavi takes a couple of hasty steps away from the couch.

“What the hell was that?” he grids out between his teeth, hands shaking by his side, body still surging with an energy Andrés wasn’t aware he still. In retrospect, he knows it was just a small spark, a flicker, a fraction, but he has no idea what it must’ve felt like for Xavi. 

Andrés stands with trembling legs. “I just… thought it would be easier if I showed you.”

“You did this?” Xavi asks incredulously.

“You know I did,” he replies, stepping closer, but Xavi shrinks back and Andrés stills. 

“What – I don’t – ... What the fuck does this mean? Why are you telling me all this?”

Andrés doesn’t answer this time, because he is sure that Xavi knows, knows it in his heart if he’d just pause for a moment. And then it’s quiet and he does and Andrés can tell the exact second when Xavi takes hold of it as if he were grasping it with his hands. His face is still with shock. Andrés wants to get close, wants to smooth the harsh lines that are marking Xavi’s features, but his stance is still defensive and Andrés decides to stay where he is. 

“This is a joke,” Xavi says. “This is – it’s insane, okay? Even more than – and you got to open up and fucking tell me the truth. All of it.”

Andrés tries to steady his voice. “This is the truth. I swear, Xavi, I do.”

He sees Xavi swallow, the jump of his Adam’s apple in his throat. “The thing about the clouds? Do you honestly think I’d believe you fell out of the sky?”

“Well, technically I didn’t fall out of the sky, I –”

“Don’t,” Xavi breaks him off, holding up his hands, taking another step back. “Just don’t.”

“Xavi,” Andrés presses on. “I should’ve been honest from the start, I realise that now, it shouldn’t have come this far. But I should not even have descended and many things went wrong.”

“Descended,” Xavi repeats monotonously. “I’m sorry, but – I can’t believe this. I just can’t,” and he starts to pace across the room, floorboards creaking, throwing shadows and deflecting light. 

“When you were fourteen, you had a crush on a girl named Núria,” he says quietly and Xavi freezes, eyes cast to the floor. “She lived in the neighbourhood and kissed you the night of the Sant Joan Festival, but after that you lost sight of each other. In the summer after you turned sixteen, you fell in love with Iker. You met him at a football camp and it didn’t last because he lived in Madrid. You twisted your knee the year after and stopped playing, but you graduated top of your class in both school and University.”

Xavi shakes his head. “Villa could have told you about that.”

But Andrés goes on. “You have two brothers and one sister and you’re closest to her, because you shared a room and bunk beds until you were thirteen, then you moved into your grandmother’s room after your grandfather had died so she wouldn’t be alone. Your father used to train you as a child, but you feel more connected to your mother. Your parents met through a mutual friend and their first date went wrong, since your father spilled his coffee all over your mother’s dress, which was light blue with red embroideries at the hem. Your grandparents met at a local dance, your grandmother slipped and fell and everyone laughed, but your grandfather told them off, helped her up and they danced all evening.” 

Xavi stares at him, shock and inner turmoil so clearly visible in his expression that it pains Andrés physically, because he is the cause, because he can’t take anything back.

“How can you know that?” Xavi asks, voice barely audible despite it being eerily quiet.

Andrés sighs. “Because I just do. I saw. I wasn’t physically present, but we always keep watch.” He pauses, chews on his lip. “Your neighbours… they were my charges. They got married three years ago; he proposed while on holiday in Brazil.”

“Jesus,” Xavi rasps and Andrés guesses that there is a hint of irony in this. “Jesus fuck! This isn’t happening. This is – this – fuck!”

“Xavi –”

“No!” Xavi stretches out his arms, as if he were in need to physically push Andrés away from him. “Don’t. Just – don’t you dare to come near me right now. God! Fucking hell, I’m an atheist, for crying out loud! I don’t even believe in God, how am I supposed to believe in –” and he stops short and looks at Andrés like he’s seeing him for the very first time. “Fuck, this is… I feel like I’m going to be sick.” He starts pacing, turns his back on Andrés to rub his face, to tug on his hair, to tightly fold his arms, to spin back around and fix Andrés with a confused glare. “Why are you even here? You said you aren’t supposed to be here. Are there… are there more of you?”

Andrés’ heart drops a couple of inches, so rapidly that he feels like he’s going to be sick too. “No, it’s – forbidden, even. We’re mere observers, not an actual part in people’s lives.” He feels his voice stutter, tries to stay calm, but it’s impossible. “There was a bet with, in your words, colleague. It included me leaving my position to fulfil it.”

“What was it?”

Andrés sighs for what feels like the hundredth time. Xavi must know by now, he’s too smart not to draw the right conclusion. “To set you up.”

“With Villa.”

Andrés nods. “Yes.”

Xavi huffs out a humourless laugh. “Well, that plan worked out well, didn’t it?”

“That plan ceased to matter to me a while ago.”

Xavi doesn’t say anything after that. He looks as tired and exhausted as Andrés feels, defeated and confused and hurt and – “I need to get out of here.” Then he turns on his heels and only seconds later, the door slams shut behind him. 

Andrés knees buckle, his legs give in, can’t hold his weight any longer. His back slides against the armrest of the couch, feet further crumpling the carpet. He feels a soft tickling on his cheek and when he touches a finger to it, it’s wet. With an unsteady heartbeat and its beat still drumming loudly in his ears, Andrés lifts his hand in front of his eyes and watches as a single, clear drop rolls off his fingertip.

 

It’s late, but Andrés can’t sleep. He remains in his position on the floor, mind so empty that it should frighten him, overly aware of a dull but sharp and ever-present ache in his chest. He wonders if that’s what heartbreak feels like.

 

When Andrés finally hears the lock turn, it’s still dark but already early morning and he hasn’t moved an inch all night. His neck aches and his body feels stiff, but when Xavi walks through the front door the next moment, a surge of energy sears through him and he scrambles to his feet, almost slips, just steadies himself against the couch. He takes a step forward, opens his mouth to say something – anything – to him, but Xavi brushes past him so quickly that Andrés hears his neck crack when he spins around, and cuts him off.

“Save it,” Xavi tells him and sets down two paper cups. “I spent one half of the night walking around, and the other half in this really creepy 24/7 café drinking coffee, so I’m kind of running on a caffeine high here. I brought some tea for you and more coffee for me, which I am not going to touch, because my head would probably explode.” He breathes deeply, turns around to face Andrés, then sinks into the cushions. “You asked me not to interrupt you and listen, and now you’re going to do the same. You’ll sit down, and you’ll listen.”

Andrés blinks, taken aback for a second, then he nods and takes a hesitant seat on the other end of the couch.

Xavi lets out a long and shaky breath. “Okay, good. I’m probably not going to make much sense, but I don’t think that making sense is what either of us is picky about right now. And I don’t necessarily care. But I need you to… it’s just – you have to understand what you actually told me, alright? That I can’t just believe all this,” he says and pauses briefly, keeps his eyes down, hands distractedly tugging on the hem of his jeans. “Weird thing is, I can believe it, I do, in a really twisted way it – crap. And I still have these images in my head and I want to think they’re just that, but they’re so fucking vivid and real that –” He breaks off again, then lifts his eyes and Andrés’ breath hitches as they meet his. “I don’t believe in God. And… I don’t believe in angels.”

“Xavi, I –”

“No. I don’t, but… I just – don’t believe you’re lying. I don’t want to believe you’re lying to me.”

Andrés scoots imperceptibly closer. “I am not, Xavi, please. I’m not.”

“What is it like?” Xavi asks him suddenly. 

“What do you mean?”

“Up there,” Xavi elaborates. But he looks uncomfortable, sitting across from Andrés.

“Up…” and Andrés raises his eyebrows, understands, but surely –

“Heaven,” Xavi says. “If that’s what you call it? I mean, does it even exist, in that way? It’s a stupid question, I know, but you just dump this on me and I can’t, for the life of me, get my head around it. I’m an atheist, for fuck’s sake!” His lips twitch, and he shakes his head in disbelief. Andrés doesn’t blame him. “So, I need to ask you and you need to tell me, because that is something I can process, okay? What is heaven like? Do you sit on clouds, or do you float between stars, is it really bright or –”

“It’s grey,” Andrés says and Xavi’s head snaps up. He swallows thickly. “It’s unlike anything in this world, but grey is the closest to a description you could comprehend.”

Xavi nods slowly. “Just -- grey?”

“It’s the absence of light and shadow. It’s where all differences meet and become void. There is no top or bottom, right or left, end or beginning.”

“Huh,” Xavi huffs. “That… actually does make sense.”

Andrés moves closer again, stills, still scared, still terrified, but he reaches out for Xavi’s hands that are constantly fiddling but freeze when skin touches skin. Their eyes meet just as their fingers slowly but steadily entwine between them and Andrés can feel Xavi’s confusion, can sense that he is hesitant still, but this is… This feels okay. This seems like they actually are meeting in the middle, a symbolic truce, a compromise on both parts so that this doesn’t end.

“So… That means – there’s no one else?”

Andrés shakes his head. His fingers grip Xavi’s tight. “There never will be anyone else.”

 

***

 

Xavi is considering that he’s the one who took a hard knock to his head that morning and not Andrés, and that he is going to wake up after a good night’s sleep and laugh about the ridiculousness that this is. It doesn’t happen, of course it doesn’t and although there is a small part inside of him that tries to convince him he’s absolutely nuts for doing so – Xavi wasn’t lying to Andrés when he said he believed him. It probably questions his sanity that he does.

It probably shows how desperately in love he is.

But that doesn’t mean he understands any of it. Although he figures that it’s perfectly normal to be confused about something he – a few hours ago – was absolutely sure didn’t exist at all; so sure in fact, that he hasn’t wasted a single moment of his adult life thinking about it or even mildly considering the possibility. 

His family is mildly religious, in the way where you go to church on Christmas Eve and maybe around Easter, but nothing substantial and Xavi has never particularly enjoyed it. He’s never been one for sheer belief. He likes logic and rationality and those are not words he’d generally associate with religion. Or the supernatural. Or – this.

So he asks questions; to find some rationality in this, to keep his mind busy and distract it from all the crazy. Andrés answers everything patiently, down to the last detail, and Xavi thinks absentmindedly that of course he does. Existing for a couple millennia most likely requires a lot of patience. Not that Xavi wants to let his mind wander further than that. It still makes him feel slightly dizzy. The more Andrés tells him, explains to him, the more Xavi can grasp the entire concept of it all and he remembers his grandmother always telling him someone was watching over them, and the fact that he can now be certain that it’s actually true – it makes him feel content, he guesses. At peace, somehow. 

At first, he keeps his distance, physically. Xavi still knows that there’s something happening, evolving, on an emotional level, but he can’t help it. He can’t help but suddenly think of Andrés being this pure and ethereal being that he literally is and that he is tarnishing him, corrupting him and dragging him down, making him sin… By now, Andrés has told him a lot, he’s probably talked more this past day than he has the entire time he’s been in Xavi’s life, and he’s explained that the concept of feelings doesn’t apply to them (Xavi can’t say angels, just thinking it makes him feel nauseous for whatever reason). So naturally, Xavi freaks the fuck out and feels more like a total creep than ever until Andrés assures him firmly and with more insistence than Xavi would’ve expected, that he is different; that he’s starting to understand.

And Xavi guesses that a lot of things make even more sense now. 

It’s a weird sense of domesticity that settles over them after more than a day of throwing questions and answers back and forth. Villa calls and leaves a message on Xavi’s answering machine, but Xavi has no nerve to deal with him right now, hasn’t got the faintest clue how he could talk to Villa without blurting out nonsense that Villa wouldn’t believe, ever. He says so to Andrés, who smiles at him in a way that makes Xavi stop short and realise that Andrés is most definitely the only one who understands the relationship they share. Not because he has experienced the same, but simply by not questioning it.

They’re in the kitchen when it happens and compared to everything else that’s happened as of late, it’s wonderfully normal. Xavi has just put his coffee mug down on the counter and turns around to find Andrés sitting at the table, pale fingers distractedly rubbing his neck. It’s when he notices Xavi’s eyes on him and looks and smiles – and Xavi thinks to hell with it. 

He crosses the kitchen, leans down and frames Andrés’ face. Andrés has a moment to look surprised before Xavi kisses him. At first, he stills and Xavi is about to pull back. The his hands tangle in Xavi’s jumper and he gets to his feet, chair falling over with a bang, but Xavi doesn’t care. Somehow Andrés arms wind up tightly wrapped around his neck and he is pulling Xavi closer, and Xavi knows now that this is all painfully new to Andrés, every aspect of it, but he can’t – 

They almost fall over when Xavi slides his hands along Andrés’ sides to find the small of his back and it’s hard to catch their balance because their lips stay glued together, both refusing to let go and they only steady when Andrés’ back hit the wall with a thump. After that, Xavi’s mind kind of disconnects. He can’t remember any time when his pulse has raced so fast and his heart has pounded so heavily in his ears and through it all is this burning need to be close, to stay close and he knows this is it, he just knows it and he simply cannot be asked to care about anything else anymore.

Andrés returns the kiss with equal need and desperation and it makes Xavi ache to his bones. There is not an inch of air between them and although Andrés’ lips are still slightly cool, the inside of his mouth is burning and when he starts to softly tug on strands of hair, Xavi is really to crawl out of his own skin. 

When he backs off, simply has to or else he’s going to choke, just an inch, he’s breathing heavy and every nerve in his body is standing on end. Andrés’s lips are parted and still wet and Xavi wants to dive right back in. The phone suddenly starts to ring and they both flinch so visibly that Xavi can’t help but let out a laugh.

Andrés smiles, eyes still slightly glazed over. “We should… do this more often.”

“We should,” Xavi agrees, because why the hell not, and goes to answer the phone.

“Why do you sound out of breath?” Villa asks just a second after Xavi has uttered a quick hello. “Oh wait. Wait. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Just calling to ask if you want to go out for dinner tomorrow? I’ve hit a block and I’ve been working on the same fucking paragraph for hours. If I don’t get out, I am going to hang myself.”

Finally, Xavi thinks. “Yeah, sure. Where do you want to go?”

“Don’t know, I’ll just come over and then we can head out and you can shoot me.”

“You’re doing it again.”

Villa sighs. “Fine, don’t pity me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Xavi drops the phone onto the table with a roll of his eyes and finds Andrés in the same position, leaning against the kitchen wall, looking slightly dishevelled. 

“Don’t leave,” he blurts out before he can even process the thoughts running wild in his head. 

Andrés straightens, pulls on the hem of his jumper that’s slightly ridden up. “I’ll have to. Eventually.”

His throat feels tight. “What happens if you don’t?”

“We’re not… made to be mortal. It wouldn’t be wise.”

He’s holding something back, Xavi can tell. He walks up to Andrés and takes his hand. “You know, I’ve watched this movie a couple of years ago. It’s about this angel who falls in love with a woman. She worked at a hospital, I think she was a doctor, he took the souls to heaven, was always wearing a black coat and – anyway. He wants to be with her, so he jumps of a skyscraper and when he hits the ground, he’s mortal.” He clears his throat. “I mean, it ends really badly, and everyone cried, but – it doesn’t work like that, does it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Figured,” Xavi says. “But, you know, they were kind of made for each other, and for the time they spent together, they were really happy. Just meant to be. Didn’t matter who she was and what he was and if she hadn’t died…” He stops himself, feels an itch in his throat. Andrés eyes are wide and so incredibly clear. “Do you believe that’s possible? Or is it bound to end in tears?”

Andrés doesn’t answer him. He closes the distance between them and buries his face in the crook of Xavi’s neck, arms winding around his torso. Xavi hugs back tightly and suddenly, he doesn’t think he wants the answer to this.

 

***

 

Andrés watches Xavi sleep that night. He watches and he can’t stop the thoughts running haywire in his head. He thinks about the past two and a half weeks and how he’d longed to return, how he’d resented feelings and everything associated with them. Now though, his entire existence pales in comparison with what he’s experiencing at this moment. And as much as Xavi still struggles to grasp the idea of an entire world out of his reach, Andrés cannot start to imagine how he would ever go back to a life without all this.

It terrifies him to a point of numbness that there is nothing he can do about it. That there is no direction either of them could head to get out of this without losing something – and in Andrés’ case everything – along the way. There is nothing for him to do but to seize every minute they have left together. 

With this sentiment firmly remembered, Andrés begins the next day and it feels like Xavi has come to the same conclusion overnight. After all, there is no point in mourning the inevitable.

They get into Xavi’s car and head out of the city and up north along the coast. The sea is a stormy grey and the sky an entity of clouds. It’s a different perspective for Andrés and he lowers the window despite it being cold, just so he can feel the wind swirl around his head. Just outside of Tossa de Mar, Xavi parks the car and they take a short hike down the cliffs to an entirely deserted beach. It’s no surprise that they don’t run into anyone. The waves are gushing, the weather chills Andrés to the bone and he can smell salt in the air, sharp and harsh.

They walk in silence for a while and Andrés keeps venturing towards the waves, pokes at the water with his shoes, imagine how freezing it must be and how far he can see with his mortal eyes. He finds out exactly how freezing the water really is when he suddenly slips and – with incredibly perfect timing – a wave washes around him before he can scramble to his feet. Xavi is by his side in a heartbeat, pulling him up by his arm, probably worried, but Andrés feels something bubbling up in his throat and before he knows what’s happening, he throws his head back and laughs.

 

They have lunch and hot chocolate in a small place they find near Girona and when Xavi drives them back late afternoon, car heater working at full capacity, Andrés keeps his hand firmly wrapped around Xavi’s on the gearstick. 

 

He can ignore the fact that he only has ten days left; that he needs to return to a place he just can’t call home anymore. But he does need to go back up there or he’ll fade into non-existence.  
Andrés does not want to think about it, he doesn’t want to think at all, not with Xavi wrapping his arms around his waist on the way up to his apartment. He is kissing Andrés’ neck and it almost sends him flying up the stairs before Xavi takes his arm, pulls him along and then presses him to his front door. Andrés’ bones melt when Xavi kisses him with parted lips and he welcomes the heat, lets his fingers find Xavi’s dark hair to twist and pull slightly and like every time Xavi’s lips find his, it’s a rainbow of sensations; feelings in different colours, emotions of different shapes.

Xavi breaks away. His breath is hot against Andrés’ neck. “Villa is coming over for dinner.”

Andrés winds his arms around Xavi’s neck to pull their chests flush and their heartbeats hammer on in unison. “Okay… okay. Yeah, lets – take this inside, shall we?”

He smiles and bites his tongue when Xavi’s nose brushes along his cheek before he unlocks the door and they stumble inside. Xavi turns around to hang up their coats and Andrés pads into the living, tugging on his scarf, looking forward to some peppermint tea and a second pair of socks when –

“Mother of –”

He jumps back, crashes into the dinner table. A stash of magazines falls off onto the floor with a solid thump. Andrés barely keeps himself from screaming, clattering footsteps telling him that Xavi is rushing to his side before he feels his hand on his shoulder.  
There’s a boy, a young man, standing in the middle of the living room. He has a kind face, brown hair long enough to hide his eyebrows. He’s wearing sneakers, faded jeans and a printed t-shirt that says Jesus Loves Me. Andrés is very sure that he has never seen him before, but there’s an awfully familiar glint in those dark brown eyes.

“Who are you?” he asks, just as Xavi is saying, “How the hell did you get in here?”

The guy smiles wide but it does absolutely nothing to his eyes. “Andrés, really? It’s been, what – a few hundred years and you don’t recognise me?”

Both Andrés and Xavi are hit with the realisation of what he means, but Andrés even more because… “I don’t – who are you?”

The guy sighs like Andrés is being incredibly dense and shakes his head. “Is it the body? Because I’ve grown quite frond of it. I look like I couldn’t harm a fly, which is ironic. And you know how I love irony.”

Andrés focuses on his eyes, dark and deep, even deeper because they hold infinity and then his gaze flickers to the writing on his t-shirt and back up again. He chokes and wants to jump farther back, but the table is in his way. Xavi’s grip on his shoulder tightens.

“A – Azrael?”

The smile turns into a smirk. “Ka-ching! Took you long enough. I always took you for the smart one. But actually, I go by Leo now. Azrael was the name He gave me and I like Leo much better. Picked it myself. It suits me, don’t you think?” He blinks at Andrés, like he is expecting an honest answer.

“I – yeah. It… suits you well.”

“That’s what Piqué said, too.”

Andrés gapes. “Piqué?”

“Of course,” Azrael – Leo – answers. “Why do you think I’m down here? You didn’t honestly believe that he came up with this entire scheme on his own, do you?” He huffs out a laugh and flops down on an armchair like this is his home. Xavi is still rendered speechless. 

“What do you mean?” although Andrés can already imagine what he is going to hear from him.

Leo shrugs. “We’ve been betting. On some random things. Humans are just so gullible, wouldn’t you agree? Anyway… I said to him that he could never get you to do something reckless, because you were Pep’s poster cupid. But as we all can see, he did convince you. So he won, and I lost, and I hate losing. I stay true to my word though, and now I owe Piqué, which is why I’m down here.”

“You owe him,” Andrés states. 

“I do, unfortunately. See, he kind of miscalculated on some parts and now he doesn’t know how to get you back, which is where I come in.”

Andrés tries to keep his breath steady, but his heart is doing somersaults in his chest. “He doesn’t know how…” he repeats numbly, then he shakes his head rapidly, trying to focus his thoughts. “Okay, Azrael? I mean, Leo. Can you give us a minute? We’ll – we’ll be right back. Don’t… break anything or – kill someone.”

Then he pulls Xavi into the kitchen and shuts the door behind them. Andrés collapses onto a chair at the small table. He had no idea that his body could hold so much tension. He lets out a trembling breath and buries his face in his hands.

“Andrés,” Xavi says. “What the hell is going on? Who on earth is he? Or what is he?”

Andrés rubs his face and groans. “That’s Azrael.”

“Yeah, I got hat much,” Xavi replies and sits down opposite of him. “I kind of need a bit more than that. And what does he mean, get you back?”

This is going to be difficult, Andrés knows. “Azrael, he – he’s the fallen Angel of Death.”

“Angel of…” Xavi pales.

“I know,” Andrés says. “He used to be His first avenger. The one He would call upon to punish the wicked. And like I am the best of my trade, Azrael was the best of his. He was the one who rained fire on Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“Okay,” Xavi breathes, obviously struggling to stay calm. The clock up on the wall is obnoxiously ticking away. “Okay. So I’ve basically got a mass-murderer in my living room, is that what you’re saying?”

Andrés shakes his head. “Well, He isn’t as vengeful anymore, I’m sure you’ve noticed. But Azrael… Leo – he was born out of His anger, so he wasn’t happy and went rogue. He couldn’t take away Leo’s powers, because Leo is a part of Him even more than anyone else. So He banned him from ever entering heaven again.”

“Charming. So I’ve got a rogue mass-murderer in my living room.”

“Who has apparently found a way back home,” Andrés adds with a frown. “I can’t imagine that He forgave him after the chaos with Jerusalem.”

“I don’t want to know, Andrés,” Xavi says before Andrés can explain anything else. “God knows that I don’t want to know what happened with Jerusalem. Fucking Christ! And yes, I know I’ve misused His name. And I’m not sorry.” He breathes in and out, deeply, before he finds his voice again. “What is he doing here?”

Andrés bites his lip.

“What are you not telling me, Andrés?”

This is it, Andrés realises, and he braces himself. “I can’t stay here. I’ve got to go back.”

Xavi furrows his brows. “I know that, you told me you’d have to go back eventually, what –”

“No, Xavi,” Andrés interrupts him. “I’ve got to go back. Not eventually, I have to. I… we… Our souls are different from yours. And mine, it – if I stay down here for too long, it’s going to disappear.”

“How long?”

“Xavi, I –”

“How. Long?”

Andrés sighs. “Ten days.”

He can see the shock washing over Xavi and his face practically crumbles and his eyes are wide and wet and – “Ten days. And you’re telling me now? Jesus fuck, Andrés! I mean, I knew – or maybe I didn’t. Oh fuck, I didn’t think you could die if you stayed with me!”

“Practically, I won’t die, because I haven’t been alive in the first place.”

Xavi stills. His glance makes Andrés shut his mouth immediately. “Really? That’s what you’re saying to calm me down? Honestly, when were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to tell me? Or would you have let me wake up one morning to a post-it note saying ‘Sorry honey, but I’ve gone back to heaven’? Is that why the fucking Angel of Death is in my living room? Is he taking you back?”

“I would have told you Xavi, I swear,” Andrés insists. “And I have no idea what Leo is doing here and I didn’t know he was involved. I didn’t know what Piqué was up to and – oh. This is how Victor got down here.”

“Who’s Victor?”

Andrés waves him off. “Not important. But he is like me, and he came to see me and he was fine and he just disappeared again. And I’m sure Leo has got his hands in there so perhaps –”

The sound of the front door opening and closing breaks him off and he looks at Xavi with a raised eyebrow. Xavi seems to think for a moment before realisation dawns on his face. 

“It’s just Villa. Coming for dinner, remember?”

“Right. Anyway, as I was saying: there has to be a way for me to see you without becoming mortal in the process. Maybe I could even stay for longer once I figure out how to do it. And maybe Leo –”

His eyes flicker to the door, then to Xavi. Xavi looks at him questioningly, silently asking him to go on. The clock is happily ticking away, uninterrupted. Then Xavi gets it too.  
Together, they bolt for the door and rip at the knob. It swings open and hits the wall with a clunk. Andrés grabs Xavi’s sleeve to keep him up because he slips on the floor. Then they stutter to a halt.

Villa has turned his head towards them, raising his eyebrows with an expression that clearly questions their sanity. His right arm is stretched out, presumably to shake Leo’s hand, to greet him like he would greet any human being he found in his best friend’s apartment. But Leo’s not human. And he’s looking at Villa like some shiny new toy, some gadget that he can play with. And Andrés knows what happens when Leo is done playing.

“Villa, don’t –” he calls out but Xavi is quicker. He jumps over the back of the couch and tackles Villa to the floor and –

“Ouch, fuck!” Villa pushes Xavi off of him. “Have you lost your bloody mind, Xavi? That hurt!”

Andrés is quick to make his way over and he positions his body between Leo and the two humans on the floor. He angles his head to look at Xavi, who keeps a tight grip on Villa’s arm and now pulls him up. He starts to drag him back into the kitchen where they just came from, accompanied by a row of curses that would make any priest cringe in horror. The door shuts again and Andrés sighs. He glances at Leo suspiciously.

“What? I wasn’t gonna do anything.”

Andrés huffs. “Right, that’s what you said before you convinced King Richard to go on a crusade.”

Leo flops down on the couch like a petulant child. In many ways he probably is one. “I didn’t really do much then either. He wanted to go anyway,” and he folds his arms and actually pouts. 

Andrés can handle a lot of things; a fallen, hopefully ex-murdering Angel of Death who is pouting is not one of these. He sinks down next to Leo. He’s bloody exhausted. Sneaking a glance at Leo, who does look like he couldn’t harm a fly, which is really ironic, he’s right with that; Andrés has to laugh. “Jesus Loves Me? Really, Leo?”

Leo takes the hem of his shirt and stretches out the writing. “It was either that or Thank God I’m an Atheist.”

Of course. “Well, I’m not going to say that’s hypocrisy, since you’re actually a part of Him. So – I know you’re here to take me back, but… I can’t. Not yet. I need more time. Can you – can you give me that?”

Leo lets go of his t-shirt and stares at Andrés with eyes so intense they make Andrés’ heart beat heavy. Out of everyone he knows, Leo is the only one who has always remained a mystery to him. He is as old as darkness itself; he has destroyed cities and entire races, yet he’d cried like a child when He had sent him away. Yet he apparently jokes and bets with Piqué and wears funny slogans on his t-shirt. Leo is a living paradox. And Andrés hopes that he holds something in his lifeless heart that will have mercy on him.

“Hm,” Leo hums and smiles. “I always told you; humans are so gullible. But that makes them endearing, doesn’t it?”

Andrés sighs and glances over his shoulder to the closed kitchen door. “It does.”

Leo’s hand is ice-cold when he puts it around his wrist and Andrés flinches, wants to yank it away, but Leo’s grip is like iron and it makes his pulse stop and his heartbeat halt and his breath hitches and then it’s gone. He looks at Leo with wide eyes and Leo’s pupils – they’re gone and Andrés can’t see his reflection. But there’s a tickle in his limbs as if… as if he were back to the way he was created. It comes crashing down on him in the fraction of a moment. 

Leo’s smile has turned as cold as his hand. “That’s right. This is what I can do, because this is what you are. I understand that you have taken a liking to these mortals, they’re very entertaining, I know. And like I said; I owe Piqué. Gambling debts are debts of honour. But don’t mistake my help for sympathy. And don’t try to take me for a fool because of the way I chose to appear. I will not be deceived.”

“I wasn’t trying to –”

His wrist is released and life comes back into his body so rapidly that Andrés has to cough. The corners of Leo’s mouth are quirked up like he’s just cracked a joke. “Good. I see we understand each other.” He gets up and conjures a leather jacket out of nowhere, shrugs it on and shows his teeth. “Nine days, Andrés. And don’t do anything stupid, like trying to kill yourself – or him. It doesn’t work that way.” He waves. “I’ll be around.”

Then he’s gone. It smells like burnt toast.

It only takes a few moments for Xavi to poke his head back in and Andrés can see relief wash over his face. He pulls Villa back out by his sleeve and gently but firmly pushes him towards the front door. Andrés follows, numbly reaching for his jacket, heart beating a tad too fast.

“What was that all about?” Villa asks as Xavi manoeuvres him out the door.

“You don’t want to know, Villa,” Xavi replies. “You really don’t.”

 

Dinner is considerable uneventful, considering their earlier tête-à-tête with the Angel of Death. He spends it sitting close to Xavi; barely touching his food, overhearing the few teasing jabs Villa sends their way, because his heart just won’t slow down and his mind won’t keep quiet. Xavi keeps hold of his hand, squeezes it reassuringly every other minute, but Andrés can’t help it. He knows Leo. And that’s the problem.

He knows what Leo is still capable of doing. And everything had happened under their Father’s watchful eyes. But Leo has fallen and he’s fallen deep and what if this is more than a little bet with Piqué? He doesn’t want to put Xavi or Villa in the line of fire in case Leo is indeed plotting something other than helping Andrés ascend. 

They say goodbye to Villa some time after ten, Andrés isn’t sure, and head back to Xavi’s flat. For a moment, they both still in the doorway, half expecting Leo or some other being to pop out of nowhere, but the rooms are peacefully empty and they lie down straight away after peeling off the outer layers. Xavi pulls him close, encircles his waist with his arms, and drags his nose over the skin just below Andrés’ ear.

“What’s going to happen now?”

Andrés slides his fingers down Xavi’s underarm. “I have nine days. Then he’s going to take me back.”

He feels Xavi’s breath against his neck. “Are you sure that’s all he’s going to do?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t have a choice but to trust him,” he says and shrugs.

“Yeah,” Xavi sighs. “Doesn’t seem like you have a choice in anything.”

He sounds bitter. Andrés never thought of it this way.

 

***

 

“Where’s Andrés?”

Xavi grabs the second cup of coffee and sets it down in front of Villa, then he joins him at the table. “Just out for a walk. He’s had a headache since yesterday, air might help.”

“Speaking of his head… How is his head?”

Xavi raises his eyebrows. “It’s fine. But honestly Villa, I don’t have the nerve for this, not anymore. Can we talk about something else? Like your book? You could tell me what it’s about.”

Villa takes a sip of his coffee. “It’s complicated. But essentially, it’s about this guy who falls in love with a person he shouldn’t.”

“Very funny.”

“Oh no, not funny at all. It’s not a comedy, it’s actually a drama.”

“I don’t even know why I put up with you,” Xavi says and buries his face in his hands because Villa looks so fucking smug it’s making him want to hurl.

“Oh, you love me. Not as much as you love Andrés, obviously, but –”

Xavi sends him a pointed glare and thankfully, Villa gets the hint. He takes another swig, puts the cup down and leans back in his chair. Xavi thinks he looks more relaxed than he has in a while, which hopefully means that he’s in the final stages of writing, of completing the final draft, getting the right amount of sleep and eating actual food, not just inhaling caffeine and nicotine. 

“By the way,” Villa starts again, but by the sound of his voice, he’s had his daily dose of teasing. “I ran into that guy yesterday.”

“What guy?”

“Oh, you know, from the other day. I figured he might be friend of Andrés. Leo?”

Xavi’s head snaps up so quickly he hears his neck crack. “What?”

“Yeah, I ran into him at that coffee place around the corner from mine, so I thought why the hell not and we had a few cups and –”

Xavi holds up his hands. “Wait, wait. Backtrack, please. You had coffee with him?”

“I did, why? What the hell is wrong with you, Xavi? He’s cute,” Villa says and shrugs.

Xavi splutters. “Cute?”

“Yeah, I mean – you’ve seen him, right? And you know what, he’s really interesting. The way he is, the things he talked about –”

Xavi’s heart is jumping in his chest, punching up into his throat and yes, he’s panicking, just slightly, but he has every reason for it. It’s been a rough couple of days. “What did he say to you? Something about Babylon? About raining sulphur?”

Villa frowns at him. “Xavi, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Hell, that’s funny,” Xavi laughs dryly. “That’s ironic, maybe you should say that to Leo, he’d like that.”

“Xavi. You’re losing your shit. And you’re not making any sense.”

Xavi sighs. “Oh no, Villa. The sad thing is, I actually am. And I’m totally sane.”

“You sure? Because you kind of sound like Jack Nicholson in One flew over the cuckoo’s nest. After they make him loopy.”

Letting his head drop back down onto his hands, Xavi lets out a groan, because this – this is just perfect. This is just another blow. He doesn’t want to dive too deeply into the whole Angel of Death thing and he’s pretty sure that even if he tried he couldn’t figure out what he was thinking – but he certainly has a fairly good idea how it looks like inside Villa’s head. 

“Okay, I know I sound crazy, but I need you to trust me on this,” he says. “Don’t go after him, and if he comes after you, don’t. Just don’t. Trust me. It’s for your own good.”

Villa blinks at him in utter confusion. “Yup, crazy. But seriously, why? Is he some sort of serial killer?” 

He laughs at his own joke, takes his coffee, but Xavi’s blood runs cold.

“Oh, you have no idea,” he mutters into his cup and sends a silent prayer towards the sky.

 

***

“You can tell him.”

Xavi shrugs, pushes the last pieces of pasta around on his plate. “I know. I just – don’t think it’s a good idea to get him involved. Ignorance is bliss, right?”

Andrés isn’t so sure about that when Leo is part of the equation. “Not necessarily. When Leo takes interest in something, I doubt there’s anything we can do about it. I might’ve been able to do something with my own abilities, but – not like this.”

“And I think the more I tell Villa to not do something, the more he wants to. It’s reverse psychology gone wrong.”

Xavi pushes the plate away from him and he looks tired and under strain and Andrés knows it’s because they’re running away from something they can’t actually run away from. But what else can they do? They can do as much – or rather as little – about this as they can about the fact that Leo seems to be watching their every step. Andrés hasn’t even told Xavi about the constant burn on his neck when he’d been out walking. He turned around so many times he lost count. 

“Okay,” Xavi continues. “Worst case scenario, what would happen? He wouldn’t set Villa on fire, would he?”

Andrés barely stops a shiver cursing through his boy. “You remember what happened to John the Baptist?”

Xavi frowns. “John the – oh.”

Andrés feels it’s time to push his own plate aside too. There is only so much difference between blood and tomato sauce. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to upset you even more.”

“Don’t apologize,” Xavi replies and reaches across the table to take his hand. “And… maybe we shouldn’t worry, Villa can usually take care of himself. It’s just – I guess it’s a distraction. If I think about this problem the entire time, I don’t have to think about the other one. How’s your head?”

Just on cue, pain stabs through his left temple and Andrés has to wince. “Getting worse,” he breathes out. “This is only a shell after all. I think it’s starting to wear thin.” He doesn’t want to worry Xavi, but he can’t keep it from him either. They’ll have to start facing reality sooner rather than later.

“It’s exactly a week, isn’t it?”

Andrés nods and a choking pain in his chest joins the one in his head.

 

At first, Andrés has no idea why he wakes up. The sky is still pitch-black and the blinking display of Xavi’s alarm clock tells him that it’s just after three. He thinks he’s only been asleep for an hour at most. Angling his head, he can see Xavi breathing evenly just a pillow away, hair tousled and eyes twitching as he dreams. They’d talked for a long time after going to bed and Xavi had told him stories this time; about growing up, about his family and friends and they’d fallen asleep at some point, forgetting the open curtains that are now allowing the artificial light from the lamps lining the street to flood the bedroom. The windowpanes are angular shadows on the sheets and there’s a cool gust of wind brushing Andrés’ skin from where it creeps through the cracks between wood and glass.

He sits up stiffly, pulling the blanket around his torso and blinks a few times to rid his eyes of the blurry hue that clouds his vision around the edges. Wrapping his arms around himself, he glances around again and one moment, everything is as always. Then Andrés sees him.

“Victor.”

He slaps his hand over his own mouth and his breath tumbles and trips over in his throats. Victor is standing in the corner by the door, clothes unnaturally white in the dark, long overcoat almost touching the floor. Relief quickly replaces shock because he misses Victor, but it’s immediately followed by dread, since there is no way Victor is just dropping by for a middle-of-the-night chat.

His gaze flickers to Xavi again, but Victor walks closer and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“He’s not going to wake up, don’t worry.”

Andrés sighs. “Why are you here?”

“Because I watch, Andrés,” Victor replies. “I haven’t lost sight of you. You promised me you would be careful and now I can barely tell you apart, like you’re fading right in front of my eyes.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his words are full of sincerity and Andrés didn’t realise how his acclimation to this world would appear to Victor’s eyes.

“I know I promised. But I lost control.”

“You fell in love,” Victor says. It sounds almost clinical coming from him, like a fact and no sentiment. “With your charge. Or rather, with Piqué’s charge, since this has been his doing.”

“I recently found out that it was actually Azrael’s,” Andrés retorts. “Or do you know him as Leo, too?”

“So he found you,” and it’s not a question, meaning that Andrés has made the right assumptions.

“He did. And he’s the one helping you to commute, isn’t he?” And that’s no question either, Victor is aware of that, since he doesn’t grace Andrés with a response. “I didn’t intend for this to happen. It would be easier for everyone if things were different, but they’re not and can’t undo it. I don’t want to. And – I will return shortly anyway.”

“You sound upset,” Victor observes.

“I’m not upset, I’m angry,” Andrés corrects him and he’s probably being harsher than he should be. After all, Victor doesn’t have anything to do with this situation. He shouldn’t have to concern himself. “But you wouldn’t understand.”

Victor leans closer, and his clothes move with his body, but they don’t rustle, they don’t make a single sound. “We’re not supposed to understand. Andrés, we weren’t meant for this. You have crossed lines that were drawn with intent and I don’t want to imagine the consequences. Not to mention that I fear it won’t be long until Puyol catches on. And if he tells Pep, the consequences for all of us will be grave.”

Andrés shrugs. He knows he’s being petulant. “I don’t care. Not anymore. And you needn’t worry. I shall take full responsibility if we are found out.”

Victor sighs, more picked up habit than actual need, and Andrés is startled when he sees that he actually looks sad.

“You’ve changed so much. But I look forward to your return, I truly do. Piqué has been almost unbearable without you to talk to.” He stands, towering over Andrés, a sculpted stature all in white. “Whatever happens – be careful.”

“I will.”

“I mean it,” Victor continues with more insistence, bordering on urgency. “Leo says he is only repaying his debts, but he fell a long time ago. He’s not a servant of truth. And he’s been travelling to this sphere and others far too frequently. Don’t get lost somewhere in between.”

Then he’s gone. A small wad a smoke rises to the ceiling.

 

Andrés decides that he hates time. Every aspect of it. When he wakes up, he can feel it pulling on his soul with cold, cruel hands. It passes too slowly until that sharp, biting headache finally subsides and it passes too quickly when he’s in the kitchen with Xavi, lets his arms wrap around Xavi’s waist and drops his forehead to the spot between his shoulder blades. Andrés just wants it to stop, but it tugs on him so steadily that he feels sick with anxiety all day.

Time doesn’t stand still when Xavi looks at him, or when he touches him and it might feel like it does when Xavi kisses him, but as he leans back again and opens his eyes, he finds that it has raced ahead even more. 

Xavi has to run by Villa’s some time in the afternoon and Andrés divides the time on his own between looking out the window to watch people hurry down the street, half expecting every second of them to be Leo, and glancing over his shoulder, half convinced that there’s someone lurking in the corner. Andrés presses his palm against the window and waits as his skin slowly starts to become numb.

When Xavi finally comes home (and Andrés lets the word roll around in his head for a moment), he sighs with relief. He’s carrying two plastic cups and sets them down before unwrapping his scarf and peeling off his coat and gloves. 

“How’s Villa?” Andrés asks and Xavi shrugs.

“The usual. I had to talk him out of tossing the entire manuscript. But I think he’s okay now.” He walks over, gives Andrés a brief kiss and hands him something that smells like hot chocolate. “I stopped by the coffee shop around the corner from where he lives. They’re usually really good, but I think the guy who served me was new. Or he had something really wrong with him.”

Andrés sits down, takes a careful sip and almost burns the tip of his tongue. “Why?”

“Took him three attempts to get the order right, and it was only Hot Chocolate and an Americano. And he had this weird far-into-the-distance look.”

He stills. “Was it Leo?”

“Well,” Xavi says and one of his brows climbs up. “He didn’t look like it. Or can he do that? Like – a body snatcher.”

“What’s a body snatcher?”

Xavi shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. But – no, I don’t think it was him. He was the same height, I think, and his eyes were pretty dark. But he was so ridiculously smiley I think he might’ve just been on drugs.” Then he downs his coffee in record time. “Anyway. Do you want to head out for a walk? It’s not that cold outside, we could pick up a few things for dinner.”

Andrés puts the lid back on his cup, feeling too nauseous for something so sweet. “Yes, lets – do that.” 

 

The city is beautiful, Andrés knows it is and it is even more beautiful up close and not just from above and he wishes so much, he really does, that he could just appreciate it and relax into Xavi’s touch as he shows him around. He tries to let sounds and sensations drown out his headache, tries to stop flinching inwardly every time there is a sudden movement in the corner of his eyesight. 

He’s getting paranoid. His mortal frame is wearing him down and his nerves are wearing thin. He dislikes crowds even more than before.

Dawn is fast approaching, sky already a murky orange and the shadows in the narrow streets they’re walking through seem to drag on for longer than they’re supposed to. They distort shapes and blur contours and to Andrés, every face looks the same until he’s suddenly standing there, on the other side of the narrow road, just a few feet away, people mysteriously parting to move around him.

Andrés feels all air getting sucked out of his body and his eyes lock with Leo’s, and it’s like he’s staring down into the pit. Then Leo crosses the street and Andrés fights for his composure.

"My Dog went to heaven and all I got was this lousy t-shirt? That's actually quite funny."

"Isn't it?" Leo smiles but as always, there's something mischievous about it, not quite honest and Andrés knows it is not a coincidence that Leo just happened to run into him. He turns his head, looks for Xavi, but Xavi is still in one of the shops and Leo has him cornered on the street.

"What're you doing? I still got a few days."

Leo shrugs. "Just making sure you won't do anything stupid. It would be a shame. I like you."

Andrés blinks. "You do? Wouldn't get that idea."

"Oh come on," Leo nudges him with his elbow. "I'm going out of my way to help you. Or rather, I'm disrupting my normal routine."

"Which is?" Andrés asks, although he isn't sure he really wants to know.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Meddling with people. You do agree that's entertaining. It's basically what you do for a non-living, isn't it? Meddling. And since the crusades, since He kicked me out, I've been so bored. Eternity can be pretty dull when you're burdened with my knowledge and my gifts, and aren't allowed to judge."

"You weren't a judge," Andrés says. "You killed people. And you enjoyed it." He's lowered his voice. The streets are busy, but Andrés isn't naive.

"Well," Leo replies, widening his smile just so that it's clearly not friendly anymore. It has a dangerous glint to it and now Andrés is hoping that Xavi will stay away for another few minutes. He should know better than to provoke the ex-Archangel of Death. Leo takes a step closer. His breath is ice-cold against Andrés' cheek.  
"We've all got our flaws, don't we? So be careful, Andrés. We don't want the wrong people finding out about yours."

And just like that, he vanishes, leaving only a soft wad of smoke behind. Andrés stays frozen to the spot until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Is everything okay?”

Andrés tries to keep his pulse even, but it’s not working. His legs feel weak. “Can we go home?”

Xavi’s eyes are full of worry. Andrés finds himself unable to return the glance. “Okay. We can do that. If you tell me what’s wrong once we’re there.”

 

Andrés remembers it so well. It’s one of the clearest memories he has. He can still hear the thunder echo through his ears that had sounded when the punishment had been spoken; a thunder that had them all trembling to their very core. Their home devoid of light and shadow had somehow seemed to lean towards darkness.  
Leo had lashed out, sharp tremors in the atmosphere and his screams had numbed their minds for decades, allowing the Dark Ages to flourish. None of them had been direct witnesses, but now Andrés dreams of bloody rivers and lifeless eyes. He dreams of the Archangels leading Leo away and Pep cradling his falling grace like a child’s. 

Then they’d thrown him into the pit.

Deservedly so, and Leo had always been strong enough to find a way out, apparently find a way up as well, but that was what he’d received after his disobedience. Andrés fears the same might be waiting for him, because even if Puyol doesn’t find out, if he doesn’t tell Pep – Victor had noticed the change in him, and he is just an ordinary servant like Andrés. 

Leo’s threat makes everything painfully real.

“What would happen if I die?” Xavi asks him suddenly, startling Andrés out of his thoughts. “Since there’s heaven, essentially, and souls. Would mine go to the place where you are?”

“No, it – it’s not like that.”

Xavi huffs. “So that’s not an option either.”

Andrés thinks he almost dislocates a limb as he scrambles up in shock. “Xavi, this isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” he shrugs. “Just trying to come up with anything that’ll stop this from ending in total disaster. You up there and me down here and I won’t even see you after I die? This is awful. This just downright sucks,” and he laughs humourlessly, perhaps trying to make it all seem less dire. 

“I feel sick,” Andrés sighs and he’s sure he is going to have a series of nightmares based on the last few hours. “And I don’t want to leave.”

Xavi grabs his sleeve, pulls him closer. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“This isn’t fair,” and he lets himself be tugged down to drape his body over Xavi’s, relishing the warmth, the steady thud of their two heartbeats trying to reach the same tune. 

“That’s the beauty of life,” Xavi says, voice drenched in bitterness. “It’s never fair.”

 

“We should go away,” Xavi tells him that night when neither of them can sleep and Andrés is drawing invisible patterns onto Xavi’s skin. “Just – somewhere. To see it all out in peace, only the two of us. I could take you to my hometown, or maybe to that place we used to go on holiday in the summer. Always just for two weeks every year, but I think it’s still my favourite place in the world. Well, maybe apart from the Camp Nou,” and he laughs softly and then he continues to talk as if he could delay everything and stretch the night a little longer, so Andrés closes his eyes and lets Xavi’s voice lull him to sleep.

 

***

 

Xavi feels like he has a hangover without having been drunk to get it. He digs through cupboards as quietly as possible, looking for painkillers, phone tugged between his ear and his shoulder.

“I’m not moving away, Villa,” he hisses and reaches for a glass. “I’m just going to be gone for a few days. Maybe longer, perhaps take some time off.”

“You’re not doing anything stupid, right? Like – eloping.”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid. I promise. No eloping. Just a short break. I’m just – I just wanted to tell you, because you always miss me, and you get worried…”

Villa snorts into the phone. “I’m not going to miss you, idiot. But… you’re not going to Vegas, right?”

Xavi shakes his head. “I promise, no Vegas.”

He pours some water into the glass, pops the pill into his mouth, listens to Villa telling him something about something; he’s not really listening, mind already elsewhere. Xavi exits the kitchen, takes a swig of water to swallow the painkiller, and stops short. He drops the phone, and a second later, the glass slips out of his hands and shatters on the floor.

 

***  
Andrés gets woken up by an eardrum-shattering clink. He shoots up in bed, heart beating in his throat and feels disoriented for a moment, blinking furiously to clear up his vision. It takes another moment for him to realise that Xavi is not in the room and that the door is slightly ajar. It would be perfectly logical for him to just lay back down and go back to sleep, because his head is still throbbing and he’s still so tired. Xavi could’ve just dropped something accidentally. 

Yet something tells him that’s not how it is. Andrés untangles himself from the sheets, quickly grabs a jumper that he’d tossed onto the floor the previous evening and tugs it on. He crosses the room and opens the door all the way. He finds Xavi standing across the living room, in the doorway to the kitchen, hand raised like he was holding a glass just a second ago and now Andrés can see the shards scattered on the floor around Xavi’s feet.

“Xavi, what –”

The he follows Xavi’s glance and freezes. Forming an almost evenly shaped triangle with them, sitting cross-legged on top of the dining table and wearing jeans and sweatshirt – is a guy. Andrés does a double-take, comes to the conclusion that he has no idea who that is, but he decides it cannot be a good sign, not since Leo made his appearance. Judging how Xavi is still standing motionless in the doorway, he agrees. 

A few beats pass between them, in which Andrés doesn’t know what to say or do, and the guy just keeps sitting there with a bright smile plastered on his face. He’s got dimples, Andrés realises, and really shiny earrings. Slowly he starts to make his way to Xavi, who unfreezes slightly, at least twisting his neck to throw a quick look at Andrés before fixing it back on the guy. 

“Who are you?” Andrés asks, but there is no answer, not even after a couple of endless moments of silence.

Xavi nudges him with his elbow and leans close. “That’s the guy from the coffee shop,” he says quietly. “The one I told you about?”

Andrés swallows thickly. “So I guess he’s not just on drugs.”

“You sure?” And he guesses that Xavi does have a point. He grabs Xavi’s hand and on their part, there is so much tension in the room that Andrés wants to cut through it. “Do you know him?”

“No,” Andrés replies with a hushed voice. “He’s not… you know.”

“Then what is he? And what the hell is he doing here?”

Andrés is just trying to figure out how to make the guy talk, or do anything, or preferable disappear again, when he hears a strange noise, a frizzling sound that reminds him of a sparking powder fuse dying out. He half-expects a fire to start in the middle of the living room. Instead it quiets down, and Leo is standing in the middle of the room. Andrés swallows down a curse.

“Hi,” Leo smiles, “Just a second,” and then lifts up a finger, and turns his back on them. The guy on the table slides off of it. “You were supposed to watch them until I got here. That doesn’t mean you should stare at them until they freak out.”

“Well, then you need to be more specific,” is the answer in a surprisingly soft voice. 

“How was that not specific, Kun?” Leo sighs exasperatedly and Andrés shares a confused gaze with Xavi. “Okay, whatever. I’m here now, so you can go.”

The guy, apparently going by Kun, just shrugs, still smiling, and disappears. He leaves a small heap of ash behind on the floor and Andrés feels a chill taking hold of his body. Victor’s words are ringing in his ear, about being careful, about Leo travelling between the spheres and he is suddenly very relieved that Kun is gone and that he hadn’t done anything but stare. 

Leo turns around again and they flinch back simultaneously. Andrés doesn’t know how long he heart will be able to take this, how long his ribs are going to withstand the violent thumping. 

“You ready?”

“What… what do you mean – ready?” 

“To go,” Leo says, raising his eyebrows like Andrés is once again being ridiculously dense and stupid.

He almost steps on a piece of broken glass when he moves closer to Leo, tugging Xavi with him while his blood temperature drops below normal. His veins icy streams spreading the cold through his body, Andrés tries to suppress a shiver, tries to suppress utter panic rising up from his belly. 

“You said nine days. They’re not over, I still have time left.”

Leo shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him, and Andrés assumes it really doesn’t. “So what? Puyol is closing in on me, they know you’re gone, and I don’t think you want them to take you back over me.”

“Why?” Andrés asks, struggling to keep a straight face. “What does it matter?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re saying now,” Leo smiles and slides closer, eyes him like prey and Andrés supposes that it some way it’s actually a fitting observation. “But you know, our friends up there? They don’t really like the one’s who think by themselves. And if you think falling to earth is painful… I doubt Prince Charming here will be waiting to pick you up in hell.”

Xavi’s fingers tighten around Andrés’ and he steps in front of Andrés, shielding him off. “Don’t threaten him.”

“Oh, what’re you going to do, Xavier? Threaten me?” Leo laughs, cold and cruel and blood-chillingly familiar.

Andrés shrinks back, pulls Xavi with him until his back hits the wall and there is nowhere to go for them. Leo laughs and his hair falls into his face, making him look even younger, even more harmless and innocent and it’s definitely reason to forget who he is, to underestimate him. It’s credit to Leo’s cunningness really; he knows how to manipulate and deceive. He knows how to lure one in and deal out the fatal blow. But Andrés doesn’t want him and Xavi to be on the receiving end.

Leo stops, out of the blue, and blinks at them like he’s seeing Xavi and Andrés for the first time. “Sorry,” he says then and shrugs. “How about we start over okay? Because you look like deer in headlights.” He clears his throat, smiles again, dimples and all, but Andrés still buries his fingers in Xavi’s jumper. “Andrés, for your own good, we need to cut your little trip short. I know you’ve gotten attached, and he can come say goodbye. But we need to take this outside. I need space. And I hate ceilings.”

Says it and turns around, leaves the flat, just like that. Andrés can only stare after him, completely dumbfounded, numbed by the obscurity of it all, until it suddenly comes crashing down on him with such force that his knees buckle. Xavi catches him by his elbow before he tumbles to the ground and pulls him flush against his body.

“I can’t –” Andrés starts to say but his breath is hitching so erratically that any other words die out before they can even reach his tongue. But he wants to say that he can’t, can’t anything, any of this, not anymore and something glazes over his eyes like a veil and Xavi is nothing but a blurred figure until thumbs ghost over his cheeks and Andrés has to blink from the soft sensation. Drops catch in his lashes, so many of them and they start to trickle down and caress his face, fingertips lightly tracing after them, trying to catch up.

“Listen, Andrés, please. Listen,” finally reaches his ears and he does try, but it’s hard, and Andrés is exhausted. “Try to inhale, then exhale slowly, one at a time.” His head is being held steady, but it still seems all over the place, heaviness and fatigue and pain. “Try to stay calm, okay? Don’t panic, it’ll be fine; it’ll all work out somehow. All we have to do for now is to follow him, and then we’ll see. That’s all. It’ll be fine.”

“How?” Andrés forces out and his voice cracks.

“I don’t know, but it will. Because this can’t end like this, I refuse to believe that. Remember that story I told you about? They found a way, and we will too. You will find your way back and if we have to do as he tells us to get there in the end, then fine.” Xavi sighs. “I don’t mind losing a few days if it means that Leo will be able to zap you back here soon.”

Andrés brings up a hand and places his palm over Xavi’s touching the side of his face.

“You always meet twice,” Xavi adds. “That has to count you guys in, too, right? It can’t just end like this. It can’t.”

Everything inside him is screaming, but Andrés doesn’t have the heart to do anything but nod.

 

It’s still early and the streets are empty. A thin layer of frost is covering the cars lining the sidewalks and most of blinds are drawn in the windows, but it’s late enough for a few early birds to walk out into the open and see them. Andrés is still in pyjama bottoms and a lose sweater and he sees now that Leo isn’t wearing any shoes. Or socks. Andrés can practically feel the cold through his shoes.

Leo is walking right in the middle of the street, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt so big that almost slides off of one shoulder, so relaxed and casual as if he were on an ordinary morning stroll through the neighbourhood. 

“Leo,” Andrés calls out. “Leo, wait. What are we – how is this going to work?”

Leo stops and turns around, starts walking back towards them. He’s still smiling. “Well, you see. I’ve stuck down here for a few hundred years now. And although there have been things I’ve discovered that are quite enjoyable – there’s really no place like home.”

This doesn’t sound good, Andrés has to admit to himself with a sense of dread pooling in his stomach. This doesn’t sound good at all.

“If they’re not watching,” Leo continues, “I can always sneak back for a short while, but it’s not the same. And then one time I visited, guess who I ran into?” Andrés assumes it’s a rhetorical question, until Leo quirks his lips. “No really, guess.”

“Piqué?”

“Of course,” Leo huffs. “Turns out he like games just as much as I do and he doesn’t like to lose either. Such a shame.”

“What are you getting at?” Andrés’ breath is shallow, his heartbeat painful and heavy.

Leo shrugs, t-shirt moving on his small frame. “You can only win if you’re holding all the cards,” and it all starts to dawn on Andrés. 

“You tricked him.”

“I did,” he confirms nonchalantly. “He kept talking about you and your achievements and how just wanted to better you, once. And then it just – came to me. So I said the right things and tossed the ball to him. We’re on par when it comes to bets and little pranks, but he’s like all of you; too trusting. Didn’t think for a second that I could be lying.”

“Andrés,” he hears Xavi pleading to his right, but Andrés shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut before fixing them on Leo, who is now standing far too close in his opinion. There’s an awkward heat radiating off of his body, some weird form of energy making the air around him shiver.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going home,” Leo says. “I’m going to take your grace and drop the rest of you on my way up.”

Xavi’s hand tightens around his so much that it hurts, but Andrés couldn’t care less. He feels like laughing, for some absurd reason, because if someone had told him this is how he’d find his end; he’d probably done exactly that.

“You’re not going to get away with that,” he says, because there is nothing else for him to say. Andrés knows he’s hopelessly lost in a face-off with Leo. He can’t take him on, be it in his mortal frame or not. He’s not a soldier, he’s just a mere cupid and right now, he’s basically nothing.

“Oh, I will. And I –”

He doesn’t manage to finish whatever it is he was going to say. A hollow, indescribable sound echoes around them, making the ground tremble beneath their feet. Andrés gets thrown off his balance and falls and his back hits the concrete with a painful thump. He thinks he blacks out for the fraction of a second. Shaking his head, sitting up with a groan, he reaches for Xavi, but he can’t. He blinks up in confusion and almost chokes on his own scream.

The street has been dipped in grey. It’s suddenly devoid of all colours. Xavi is still standing up and just as Andrés is wondering how he managed to do that, he realises that Xavi is entirely motionless and that a grey veil has been dropped over him too. For a moment, Andrés simply stares and listens to the silence, feeling off and not knowing why until he realises why it is so utterly quiet – he can’t hear his heartbeat. He can’t sense his pulse. He knows it’s still cold, but he can’t feel it anymore.

There’s a sound to his left that makes Andrés turn his head. 

“Oh crap,” Leo mutters with a scowl, brushing dust off his jeans and t-shirt. The outlines of his body flicker like he’s about to disappear right in front of Andrés’ eyes again, but a sudden gust of wind whirls around them, too warm for this time of year. Leo’s expression is grim, but he glances over to Andrés still crouching on the ground. “Seems like it’s your lucky day.”

Then he’s here. 

Andrés shuffles to his knees and bows his head, but keeps his gaze lifted, full of disbelief, but firmly fixed on the tall figure standing between himself and Leo. Wearing a spotless white suit and equally pristine overcoat that almost touches the ground, he graces Andrés with a soft smile that warms his blood, then turns his attention to Leo, who has folded his arms in front of his chest, chewing on his lip with petulance. 

“Damn,” Leo curses, then clears his throat awkwardly. “Hello, Pep. Long time no see. Piqué ratted me out, didn’t he?”

“There was no need,” Pep tells him. “We never lost sight of either of you.”

“They why –” Andrés splutters before he can get a hold of himself, scrambling up to his feet, but Pep silences him with a look. He snaps his mouth shut and stills.

“Because He chose not to intervene.”

Leo scoffs. “So now He decides He doesn’t like intervening? Very convenient.”

"You should be careful, Azrael. This isn't very helpful on your supposed path toward redemption. You're starting to resemble your brother."

"You're comparing me to Lucifer? Come on, it wasn't that bad. I just want to go home, Pep. I miss Our Father."

"And He misses you, little one," Pep sighs. "But you need to cease following your brother's footsteps. Lucifer has fallen deep and it would break Our Father's heart if he had to send you after him. It would break mine too."

"But it's not fair."

"I shall not argue with you, Azrael. You know Our Father's ways are not easy to understand, but they are just; He is just. But for now, you must linger on earth, pray for His forgiveness. And apologise to Andrés."

Leo rolls his eyes, snorts and mumbles something incomprehensible. His t-shirt says Jesus for President. "Fine. Sorry. Whatever," then he is gone in a dark cloud of smoke and Andrés guesses Leo makes a point of letting it swirl around Pep's form, dusting his pristine white shirt before being blown away by non-existing air. Time is ever standing still. Pep smiles far too fondly considering the trouble Leo has caused and the headaches he apparently continues to give the archangels. They're most likely still looking for a way to punish him.

"What's going to happen to him?" Andrés feels unable to stay quiet. He feels unable to feel the slightest hint of anger towards Leo; because he knows how it is, to miss something with all his heart and to know that it'll be taken from him for the rest of his existence. 

"He shall be fine, little one," Pep tells him with the same quiet smile he always carries. Andrés wonders if Pep feels anything towards them; if he's only this way because of millennia of practice and care. "He always is. Punishing Azrael is beyond our power and our duty. And it seems Our Father has something else in mind for him."

Andrés nods slowly. "And Piqué? What about him?"

Pep steps forward. His hand is light on Andrés' shoulder, light in a way it shouldn't be. "He will learn. Much wiser beings have fallen for Azrael's tricks."

Andrés nods. His heart is heavy in his chest despite it not literally being there anymore. He can feel his powers tingling in his fingertips and fuelling his body. He doesn't need a heart anymore, but he fears that he is never going to forget its presence.

"Will I be punished?" he asks, voice breaking uncharacteristically. His eyes are glued to Xavi, grey and cold and immobile like a statue and Andrés yearns to see Xavi look at him, just one last time.

"No, little one." Pep steps closer and gently frames his face, turns his head and forces Andrés to look him in the eye. "Your punishment will be remembrance; knowing what it means to feel and love, what it means to be loved. And you will never forget it.”

“You’re just – taking me again? But then why… What harm is there in me staying? Please, Pep. I don’t think I could bear. I refuse. I don’t… I can’t…”

He reaches for his chest, wants to feel his heart thundering against his ribs but there is nothing. He is hollow and he knows he can’t, but he knows how it is.

"Andrés, I know you're upset and -"

"I'm not upset!” he chokes out, wrapping his arms around his torso. “I'm in pain. Do you know how that feels, Pep? How that feels? I know I've done things I shouldn't have, but it's too late to change them and I've fallen in love. I love him Pep. I don't want to leave him."

"I'm afraid that is not your choice to make."

"There is no choice at all! Leo is right, you know? It’s not fair. It’s not.”

Andrés wants to embrace Xavi, wants to hold on for dear life, but Pep keeps his hand on Andrés’ shoulder, doesn’t allow him to move, doesn’t allow him to do anything but obey and it doesn’t make sense, because just a few moments ago he’d wanted to practically kill him, but Andrés understands what Leo had meant, gets his frustration and the urgent drive to fulfil his own wishes.

Pep doesn’t say anything to him, and Andrés knows that there won’t be any discussion.

“Can I at least tell him goodbye?” he asks with a last tired spark of desperation that’s still clinging onto him. 

Pep casts down his eyes and shakes his head. Andrés wishes they’d just thrown him into the pit.

“I’m afraid not.”

“You’re going to make him forget, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Pep says. “It is for the best.”

Andrés sinks to the ground. He doesn’t have the strength to stand up anymore. He doesn’t have the strength to watch Pep walk over to Xavi, doesn’t want to watch him place his index and middle finger against Xavi’s temple to take away every single memory including Andrés, every feeling towards Andrés and everything that will make him remember Andrés.

Andrés knows he would be crying if he still could. He’d be screaming in agony if it weren’t for that numbing emptiness grasping his body. And he would shake with the memory of Xavi telling him about love and fate and that they’d figure something out, that this couldn’t be how it ends and Andrés still wants to believe it.

A light starts to glow right above him, warm and familiar and exuding treacherous tranquillity and soon it spreads, swallowing the sky and the rows of houses and the streets. It surrounds Andrés, tugs on his soul, calls out to him.

And this is how it ends.

 

***

 

This is what we see.

An array of clouds pressed tightly together like cotton candy, light and airy and coloured in hundred nuances of pink and orange and yellow. The sky is equally striking, drenched with copper. Sometimes, he will stop and look, perhaps stand in the middle of the street, perhaps even pause mid-conversation because once in a while, there will be a little bit of sun poking through and it will captivate and entail wonder. And just for a moment, without really knowing why, he will feel as if there were something missing. But in the end, he will shake his head and continue as before.

This is what it really is.

There are less than what people might believe if told. A few hundred; never all in one place, but spread all over the globe. They’re not really part of our world and they don’t walk among us, because they are not like us. Nevertheless, we are their purpose and they are our reason and there can’t be one without the other. And on some evenings, when the sun is setting and drowning in scarlet, one will come down to look for one specific person. He won’t do anything but watch for a while and sit in silence and sometimes remember what it was like. 

And if he had a heart, it might have broken every time.


End file.
